


Epiphany

by phlox



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drama, F/M, Hogwarts Professors, Mystery, Romance, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-26
Updated: 2012-04-26
Packaged: 2017-11-03 19:28:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/385030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phlox/pseuds/phlox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What would you say if I told you the Hourglasses were not an isolated incident? Or if I told you that this most surely involves deep magic going back centuries to the founding of Hogwarts? What would you say to helping me solve a mystery that could hold the future of the school in the balance?”</p><p>“I’d say it’d be just like old times, Granger.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cleodoxa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cleodoxa/gifts).



> **Disclaimer:** This work is intended to be a transformative commentary on the original. No copyright infringement intended. No profit is being made from this work.
> 
>  **Beta Reader:** My ever-faithful beta, eucalyptus, deserves kudos and cookies for the extraordinary work she did on an inordinately tight schedule! She's so generous with her time, and I'm so grateful to her for her input.
> 
> I can now also thank four others for their input. When I was completely blocked and didn't know how to proceed, four lovely ladies swooped in to give me prompts and support: Misdemeanor1331 and Dayang Lucilla: thank you for your cheerleading and inspiration; Riptey, thank you for the use of an awesome piece of dialogue; and Sage, thank you for the key to the mystery!

Although she’d been out of her Hogwarts uniform for over a decade and wearing her professor’s robes for almost four years, Hermione’s nerves could still be rattled by an unexpected visit from Minerva McGonagall. The headmistress had always had that power over her students, and it didn’t seem to fade with time. Like seeing a policeman when out with friends on a Friday night: no matter the circumstances, you couldn’t help but check yourself to be sure you weren’t doing anything wrong.

And it would, of course, have to be this class she’d come to observe, standing imperiously in the back so that she was never out of view. Hermione was a confident teacher who knew how to keep order, and Charms was an interesting subject liked by most. But this one class, a mix of fifth-year Hufflepuffs and Slytherins, always proved to be her most challenging. 

There was the usual age-old lack of compatibility between the two Houses, but there was also a handful of students who she felt she had to win over each class. The toughest of them were Greta Carmichael and Mitchell Gibbon: best friends, bright students, Slytherins. Never was there any outright insolence, but there was always a strange edge to their questions as though they were testing her every move. 

Hermione had known them since she’d begun teaching, and they’d never seemed to have an attitude with her before this year. She was sure enough in her authority and skill not to be intimidated by them, but she worried what their issue with her could represent; if it was just the two of them being teenagers, that was one thing, but if they had developed a problem with her personally, that could be a sign of worse to come.

The moment the headmistress entered the classroom, the two of them started whispering. Hermione didn’t rule with an iron fist, so she gave them some time, seeing if they’d settle down on their own and get back to the lesson. The murmuring continued, however, every time she turned her back.

“Is there something you wanted to ask, Miss Carmichael?” Hermione called, her back toward the room. When it was met with silence, she turned around, raising an eyebrow, doing her best impression of McGonagall herself. It only took a moment for the boyish, strawberry-blonde girl to collect herself.

“No, ma’am,” Greta replied primly. “We were just wondering if you were going to teach us the _ancient_ derivation of the Homorphous Charm as developed by Brutus Schmidt, instead of merely speaking of the reductive, modern usage.”

Hermione was prepared for this, as she’d grown to be over the course of teaching these students. “Excellent question, Miss Carmichael. We’ll be discussing that very thing once we learn the modern incantation, but it sounds like you’ve got a head start on the next essay.”

Some groans sounded from the back of the classroom as Carmichael nodded stiffly and turned to whisper to her friend. Gibbon was a sickly looking boy, having grown too tall too quickly, and his large, round, brown-eyed stare always struck Hermione as rather baleful. His glance to her was through narrowed eyes, but she turned her back on them and continued with the lesson.

Hermione had regained her footing by the time the students filed out at the end of class. Minerva had become her friend as well as her mentor in the last several years, but she’d never get over the nervous twitches of the little girl inside herself who badly wanted to impress.

“It might not be apparent from that, but I feel like I’m making progress with them.”

“Fifth year is a difficult one for students... and a difficult age, as I’m sure you’ll recall,” said McGonagall.

“Well, some more than most, Headmistress,” Hermione replied, sharp with irony.

“Indeed.” She nodded tightly, a shadow coming over her face. It was suddenly apparent to Hermione that she was not about to be invited for a casual afternoon tea. “If I might have a moment of your time, Professor Granger, there’s something that requires your expertise,” she said, her lips tight and her voice more reed than its usual steel.

Hermione was taken aback by her manner but agreed without thought. McGonagall looked so _old_ all of a sudden. Of course, that was a silly notion; she’d always been old, as long as Hermione had known her. But from time to time, some small part of the flinty façade would slip and the woman would look suddenly feeble, as though she weren’t indestructible, as though she were a mere mortal. It never lasted long, but it was enough to shoot a chill through anyone who had grown up believing in superheroes.

On the walk through the castle to McGonagall’s office, they made small talk about this and that while Hermione tried to quell the uneasiness bubbling in her gut. Recent events had done much to put her on edge. In the last few months, there had been a rash of vandalism at Hogwarts and the surrounding village of Hogsmeade pointing to a new wave of pure-blood pride. She’d been anticipating what was to come with dread, and as she followed the headmistress up the circular staircase to Dumbledore’s old office, her sense of apprehension grew stronger. 

She was so distracted, in fact, that when McGonagall led her to a pedestal with a clear, magical casing on top, wherein lay a large scroll of parchment and an ostrich-feather quill, her reaction was (in retrospect) entirely inappropriate. She’d never noticed the pedestal in all the times she’d been in this office, in the corner and out of the way as it was. When the headmistress turned to her with her eyebrows raised, her expression inscrutable, the sheer innocuousness of the thing caused Hermione’s tension to unravel.

“What?” she blurted with a shake of her head.

“It’s the Muggle-born Quill, Professor Granger.”

Hermione turned to look back at it with a gasp of recognition. 

McGonagall’s voice continued softly through her reverie, “What do you see?”

With a thrill of discovery, Hermione was too overcome at the history before her to respond. She knew very little about the Muggle-born Quill, as Hogwarts, A History only mentioned it in passing. The fact that it was what brought those of Muggle birth into the wizarding world imbued it with a sense of controversy, and it was spoken of rarely. 

Funny though, you’d never know there was anything extraordinary about it to look at it: the parchment was rolled into a scroll, the top-most part thick and heavy with the records of years past. The bottom roll was less thick, but being a magical object, it surely had a never-ending supply for the Quill’s use. Between the two rolls stretched blank parchment. The feather itself lay diagonally across it. 

Once Hermione had finished her examination, finding nothing terribly remarkable other than the obvious age and potency of the artifact, she looked back to McGonagall with a furrowed brow and shook her head, bewildered.

The headmistress smiled tiredly. “It was an unfair question. The more pertinent matter is what you _don’t_ see.” With that, she pulled her wand from her left sleeve and flicked it toward the case with a murmured _Pellego_ , causing the top part of the scroll to unroll, revealing words written in swirly, ornate handwriting.

To the left were headings marking the school year, and next to each were lists of the Muggle-born students who were eligible to attend for that period. Skimming, Hermione recognized the names of a number of her students, and she smiled thinking of the magic that bound her to them and the force of the enchantment that had brought all of them into this world. Scanning for all of her favorites, it was then she noticed that there were indeed many she _didn’t_ see. 

Upon closer examination, she realized it was only her older students she found there; the last entrance-year listed was 2008-2009. Below that was just blank parchment. Four years of students between then and now were not on the scroll, and those written for the latter year seemed to be written more faintly than those above them, as though they were in the process of fading. Hermione’s feeling of alarm returned, and she looked up as McGonagall began to speak.

“I noticed something was wrong with it about six weeks ago. I’ve been waiting for the quill to transcribe next year’s students, as this is the time we usually plan home visits to the Muggle families for orientation. At first, I merely found it odd that nothing had been written. Then, instead of hovering over it at the ready, the quill laid itself down entirely. And a few weeks ago, the names started to disappear from the bottom up.” She paused, her heavily lined face creased in concern. “If it were only this, I would have called on the Ministry weeks ago. But along with the other incidents and what happened last week...”

Hermione nodded, recalling the previous Sunday when a great and abrupt clacking noise had thundered in from the Entrance Hall, and most of the students had left their dinners to rush out to see. Hermione had arrived with the rest of the staff to find that the House Point Hourglasses had all suddenly reset themselves. The rubies, sapphires, emeralds and topaz had _en masse_ leaped back to the top half of their glasses, leaving all Houses with an even score of zero. Since then, no awarding or deducting of points by any professor, prefect, or Head had any effect.

“The Quill and the Hourglasses...” Hermione mused. “They’re both Founders’ magic.”

“That’s right, Professor Granger. They’re a part of the charter and as old as Hogwarts itself.”

“But what of the rest? From what you’re saying, the other pranks aren’t likely to be a part of it. No student could go up against this level of enchantment.” 

The incidents had been admittedly unsettling and had become more and more frequent since the beginning of the year. Graffiti proclaiming the superiority of pure-bloods had been emblazoned on walls, Muggle-borns had been the target of petty theft and trickery, and the animosity between Slytherin House and the others was at a level of ferocity unmatched since the Second Wizarding War. 

Hermione had found herself looking around at the students more often during meal times, classes, and at school events like Quidditch matches; on occasion, she’d catch one just as they were looking away. Mostly she could convince herself that it was just her imagination, but at times she swore she’d seen a gleam of hatred or hostility in the young face as it turned. Hermione was understandably wary of the perpetuation of bigotry, and she was always concerned about what could be done to educate, unite, and uplift.

But if there were an outside force, a greater organization that was influencing events within the school, there was much more to worry about than inter-house unity. 

“My instinct tells me those incidents are students acting alone, but I’ve been wrong before,” McGonagall said, letting that hang in the air as Hermione knew exactly who she meant. “What I want to avoid is panic. I don’t want an Inquisition on my hands.”

 _A witch hunt_ , Hermione thought with a shudder as she nodded her agreement. It wasn’t a term that was common in the wizarding world, for obvious reasons, at least as a metaphor. But she’d grown up with the phrase as a warning of what could happen when mob-mentality took over and people became no more than the sum of people’s perception of them. There were those here who’d been hurt by that in the past, and they didn’t need old wounds reopened. 

“For that reason, I don’t want to involve the Ministry unless I have to. I need your help, Hermione, in researching what went into the creation of the Quill and the Hourglasses, as well as any other information on the foundation of the school itself. Naturally, I’d ask you to be as discreet as possible.” 

“Of course, Headmistress,” she said, rather excited suddenly as though she had just been set an extra-credit essay. “I’ll begin in the library tonight after dinner.” 

Hermione made to leave as McGonagall turned from the pedestal and made her way to her desk.

“You would probably benefit from finding out about the nature of any spells or curses on the objects themselves. I’m afraid it’s beyond my skill in that area, but I’ll leave it up to you if you’d like to enlist any help from anyone on staff,” she said, sitting heavily at the desk, her look nearly neutral but for a spark in her eye that caught Hermione off-guard.

It could only be a stab in the dark, surely; no one was privy to Hermione’s feelings one way or the other. But McGonagall had been known to meddle in places in the name of expediency and healing, a tactic she’d learned from the man in the portrait above her right shoulder. Hermione glanced up at him accusingly, but he was either dozing or doing a rather fine impression of it. With a tight nod as the only response she could give, she left the office, hoping to solve this mystery herself and let sleeping dragons lie.

  
*******   


Hermione had always prided herself on being able to change course when required. She was not one who was incapable of admitting fault, and she never let pride get between her and doing the right thing.

Eventually.

So it only took a couple of evenings of research to admit that it would not be enough. Something she’d learned in her years in Magical Law Enforcement, in fact, was that it never was. You needed practical knowledge, the kind you could only get from working in the field; you needed evidence: hard, tangible experience of the problem at hand to get a full enough picture to find its solution. She could gather all the considerable amounts of writing by and about the Founders themselves that she liked, but it would do no good. There was too big a pile on her table in the Hogwarts library to have any inkling of what she was even looking _for_.

Besides, there wasn’t anything particularly wrong with asking him for help. They’d had a fine working relationship since he’d begun at Hogwarts that past fall, having had little contact beyond what was necessary. Nearly a whole school year had gone by, and there had been no awkwardness beyond the stretching of underused muscles it had taken to get through meeting again. Hermione was sure it was all due to the years that had flown by and the fact that they hadn’t had to live them out in close proximity.

Yes, his leaving to work on the Continent was exactly what had needed to happen for them to get over their little... flirtation. Coincidentally, the job that had taken him away was what made him so bloody useful now; years of being a Curse-Breaker both for Gringotts and in private practice made him ideally suited to help her with this. Indeed, it had all worked out just... _perfectly_.

With a sigh, Hermione pushed away the work in front of her, rose to her feet, and cast a spell over the piles of parchment and books so that her workstation in the library wouldn’t be disturbed. It was a Saturday afternoon and a Hogsmeade weekend to boot, so there were few students in the castle. She knew he’d be in, though; he rarely went to town with the school. His excuse to McGonagall was that he needed to leave office hours for his N.E.W.Ts-level students, but even the most dedicated of them didn’t miss a chance for Butterbeer and Zonko’s, especially once spring came to Scotland. 

But he’d gone on only the first trip after he began as Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher and never again.

The classroom was on the first floor and was notable only for being wholly unremarkable. Teachers tended to put their mark on their spaces, for aid in teaching if not purely for vanity’s sake. But the room had been left as it was when he’d moved in: whitewashed, uncluttered, and airy with its many windows and open areas. It had the feel of one who was not planning on staying long and who was prepared to leave on a moment’s notice. But it was very functional as a work studio, and his reputation held that it was used as precisely that. He was well-respected by the students as no-nonsense and fair, and this room was conducive to flying through the curriculum with efficiency.

Looking up from the bottom of the curving staircase into his office on the floor above, Hermione could see that the sparseness of decoration continued in there. Also visible was a head of white-blond hair bent over its work. She took a deep breath and ascended the stairs. By the time she reached the doorway, he’d raised his head, put away whatever he’d been working on, and was waiting with rather detached anticipation.

“Professor Malfoy,” she said, standing purposefully tall under his regard.

“ _Professor_ Granger,” he replied, his expression softening and a slight smile pulling one corner of his mouth. He had a way of using her title in an inexplicably inappropriate way, as though they weren’t actually teachers and colleagues but merely playing at it. Like children in a game of make-believe. He gestured to the chair in front of his desk and leaned back. “Have a seat.”

She looked around for a moment, feeling strangely awkward and unsure how to begin. “I love what you’ve done with the place,” she said finally, smirking.

“Thank you.”

Sighing inwardly, she realized small talk would be too much work and decided instead to be abrupt. “What do you know about the re-setting of the House Point Hourglasses?” she blurted.

Immediately, a shutter came down over his expression and his light manner vanished. “What do you mean?”

Initially surprised by his reaction, she realized that had sounded rather like an accusation. She softened her voice and tried again. “Weren’t you a part of the group that looked into it?”

“No,” he said, relaxing marginally.

“Oh? Who was, then?”

“That was Vector and Twycross.”

“I thought I saw— Weren’t you running diagnostic spells the other night?”

“Yes.” 

There was a flicker of curiosity in his eyes at that, and she realized she’d just admitted to watching him. Not that she was habitually watching, she’d just... noticed. 

“Well, did you find anything of interest?”

He nodded. “Wards and enchantments are always of interest to me.”

Hermione huffed in exasperation. This conversation was reacquainting her with something distinctly and infuriatingly _Draco_ that she’d had the pleasure of forgetting over the years. When he felt unsure about something, when he didn’t know exactly where a conversation was going or what advantage was to be had in a situation, he’d offer up nothing but the barest bits of information he could get away with in order to answer the question. With this skill, she’d always thought he’d make a spectacular witness at trial.

“Would you like to share your findings with the class, Mr Malfoy?” she asked wryly. 

He smiled slightly but his look was still more calculating than sly. “It would be entirely premature for me to draw any conclusions.”

“Perhaps you could make an educated guess, then.” She was getting decidedly irritated by the path this conversation was taking.

“There are no educated guesses in curse-breaking, Granger. Approximations can get you killed.”

She could never stand to be patronized or scolded, and that sounded like both. “I’m well aware of the importance of care and precision in all fields of magic, Professor,” she snapped. There just happens to be something of greater import under consideration, and I’m not here to play games. If you would care to be of use, Headmistress McGonagall needs help with a very sensitive issue of which the Hourglasses are merely a part.”

“And what is that?” He leaned forward on his elbows, suddenly fully engaged.

At this, Hermione recalled another thing about Draco. He’d always said that sitting back and offering as little information as possible usually led to the other person spilling all. Her cheeks heated in irritation. She simply needed his help. There should be no reason why she couldn’t just come right out and ask him, but everything between the two of them had somehow always turned into a power play.

Well, Hermione was well-versed in the intricacies of that sport.

She stood, leaning forward, her palms on his desk. “What would you say if I told you the Hourglasses were not an isolated incident? Or if I told you that this most surely involves deep magic going back centuries to the founding of Hogwarts?” Seeing interest spark in the flint of his eyes, she hit her stride. “What would you say to helping me solve a mystery that could hold the future of the school in the balance?”

Because Hermione knew one very important thing about Draco that she’d never forget: he could never resist intrigue wrapped in a challenge.

His smile was slow and genuine, and he spoke with sincerity as he stood to meet her eye-to-eye. “I’d say it’d be just like old times, Granger.”

And there it was, clean and simple. There had been no cause to dread talking to him, because there was no conflict between them, apparently; none whatsoever. They were nothing to each other after all these years, and that’s just how she wanted it. Being acquaintances was appropriate and it was plenty. It was a relief.

There’d been absolutely no point to Hermione worrying about silly, almost-things from years ago that never were and never would be.


	2. Chapter 2

There hadn’t been much that was grand in those ‘old times’ though, and Hermione wouldn’t trade the passage of years for the privileges of youth to have to live through them again. 

Almost as soon as the sun had risen on Voldemort’s corpse, wizarding Britain had been thrown into chaos. One Ministry administration had been replaced with an entirely new regime in a matter of days. Accusations had flown from every corner as people turned on each other, seeking to score points, win ground, and shore up their own defenses. Work had needed to be done and quickly, to reassure, rebuild, and reunite.

It had made a lovely campaign slogan for Kingsley Shacklebolt in his run for Minister.

Harry had understandably been more affected by it all than most. He’d needed more than peace afterward; he’d needed escape and oblivion. After a few weeks of memorials and dodging the press at every turn, he’d returned the Elder Wand to Dumbledore’s tomb, taken Ginny by the hand, and simply disappeared. Neither of them needed more familiarity than could be found in each other, and they’d simply bet on their family and friends forgiving them later for their absence. 

Ron had thrown himself into his devastated family with a passion and maturity that was as admirable as it was surprising. The death of one child, the return to the fold of another, and the flight of the youngest had made the Weasleys turn inward, to band together to try to make sense of it all. George had needed constant company, so helping him with the store had made sense for Ron. At the end of each day, he hadn’t had any part of his exhausted emotions left over for Hermione, and she’d given him the space he asked for – just as every muscle in her body had cried out to be held and comforted by the one person from whom she’d needed it the most.

But life did not always give what you asked of it, and Hermione was not the sort of girl to waste time waiting for something she could not have. She’d returned from Australia alone, her parents not at all understanding of her motives for stealing the very essence of their identities and spiriting them off like children. Without her family or her family of friends, she’d found herself profoundly alone for the first time in her life. Facing a future without anything that had defined her past, she’d had a yearning for a home, an ache deep down to her bones like she’d never again find a place to have a good night’s sleep.

The Department of Magical Law Enforcement had been in desperate need of clerks and researchers to work through the mountain of prosecutions that were the most demoralizing detritus of the war. Hermione had been fast-tracked through the hiring process by a number of _important people_ and was soon safe, deep in the bowels of the Ministry. It was soothing to have her life measured out so predictably; she’d taken comfort in channeling all her energy into things her brain could process, leaving her heart to rest from all she’d not been able to understand.

Then nearly a year later, in had walked Draco, looking considerably better than when she’d last seen him and answering all of her questions with ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answers. She’d been far too distracted to even bother shoring-up her defenses, and he’d seemed wary of her, as though she’d been about to let loose with a barrage of spite and castigation. But after about a week, they’d both settled into a relationship as civil as that of strangers. Well, almost; he never could let a mention of one of her friends go by without a dig. But she never had taken his bait, even when they were kids (and she’d spent years and wasted breath trying to get Harry and Ron to do likewise), so even those passed by without incident.

Malfoy’s case had been one of the first to come through the department after she’d started, though she hadn’t been assigned to do any of the work for it. She’d followed it carefully though, and had read all the evidence brought against him and presented on his behalf. His trial had received more attention than most, as the public struggled to make sense of what had happened in the war, and the media was only all-too eager to feed them the more dramatic tales.

Snape’s narrative had been too complex to go over well; people couldn’t wrap their brains around such selfless heroism in that dark of a package. He had been largely ignored in the balance of what had won the war versus the forces of evil that had been defeated. But Draco Malfoy’s role had been comparatively straightforward. Wizarding society had found it simpler to focus on the real, live Malfoy boy in front of them, and it was easy to hate him as much as he’d clearly hated them.

Because of the attention and the need for the Ministry to appear as though they were taking decisive action, his case hadn’t been tried as a clear-cut matter of the acts of a minor and coercion under extreme duress. Hermione had submitted a statement about what she knew of his actions throughout the war, but it wasn’t read in open court, so she didn’t know if it had been taken into account. 

The trial had become a confused mix of heavy judgment and sympathetic leniency. Some thought it too light and railed at the fact that he hadn’t had to set foot in Azkaban; others found it too harsh that his sentence was far heavier than those who’d done worse under what they’d dubiously claimed as the influence of the Imperius Curse. 

What it had been, in the end, was six months of strictly confined house-arrest, followed by work-release as a volunteer for an MLE-defined period. From there, he’d been on strictly monitored parole for the next decade, where any aspect of his life and any use of magic could be scrutinized by law enforcement. 

It had been more than just punishment or even an attempt at rehabilitation; it had been a clear message that he was not trusted and not expected to ever be trustworthy. For one so young, it had hardly been a vote of confidence. It was a clear message that the powers that be, the long arm of the law, and the greater wizarding society had little faith in his capacity to grow and change.

Draco had been assigned for his work-release to her department, and he’d seemed relatively sanguine about it as the clerical work had suited him. Hermione had heard how all parolees had to wear anklets that both served to hinder their magic and track their location, but she’d never seen it on him in all their time working together. The fact that he’d never crossed his right leg over his left didn’t escape her notice, but she’d never asked. 

And Draco had never asked about Harry, Ron, her family, her life or anything that had brought her to that room.

He’d done his job, but he hadn’t just kept his head down. Meeting the ire and accusations of those who refused to let wounds heal, he’d moved with the confidence of one who knew that what you didn’t have, you could fake, and that what you didn’t feel, you could project with poise.

Hermione could see that same swagger in Draco now, all these years later (along with his infuriating habit of walking too fast for her to easily keep up), but it was hard-won and genuine now, and it filled him up whole. It was impossible for Hermione to keep from wishing she could lay claim to it, to feel like she’d played some part in the path he’d walked from the boy he’d been to the man he was. There were parts of her over which she would have honestly given him ownership, so it would have been a fair trade. 

Hermione was nearly out of breath when they reached the staircase to the headmistress’ office, and there was only a moment of confused surprise when he muttered the password before she had a chance to do it herself. Of course he would know it as well, she reminded herself; he was a teacher, as trusted as she. 

Standing in front of the pedestal, he simply gazed at the scroll and Quill at first, looking dazed with something like reverence. She cast _Pellego_ to show him how the most recent names were disappearing, and he repeated the spell to scan through more of it. He became engrossed in reading it, his brow furrowed. Glancing over, she could see Draco was looking through the lists for the nineties, and her heart beat a little faster at the thought he might be looking at her name as she’d seen it herself a few days before. 

There’d been a time when he’d not believed she deserved to be in this world, and that Quill and parchment was what had delivered her into it. That Draco and Hermione could stand together now with their personal history intertwined with that of this artifact was dizzying. There were still shards of hurt that cut her up unexpectedly at times all these years later. And there remained a sliver of doubt deep inside her that the boy he’d been still resided in the man he was now.

“It’s rather extraordinary,” he breathed. “I read about it years ago and knew it went back to the Founders’ time, but to see... there are so many names.”

She kept her voice hushed in deference to the weight of the moment, but he still started when she spoke. “Can you tell if it’s been tampered with?” she asked. “I couldn’t get past the casing to check the objects themselves, which led me to believe that maybe it wasn’t possible to access it directly.”

“No, there’s just a trick to it.” Draco said, suddenly a flurry of swishes and flicks.

She’d never seen him like this: authoritative, deep in concentration, his magic pulsing from him. Negotiating with the elements and the ether, his movements were studied and sure. After a few minutes, a field began to form around the case, an iridescent mist swirling with color. Then his wand paused as he held it aloft, waiting, watching as the reds, blues, yellows, and greens fought for dominance. He breathed heavily, his brow dotted with moisture. 

“There it is,” he said suddenly, eyes alight with excitement.

She was just pulling in breath to ask what ‘it’ was when he turned and headed out of the office. Too captivated to be exasperated, she followed. 

One, two, three, and they were out and back down the stairs, rushing through the near-empty corridors. Hermione followed even more hurriedly, as his long stride (and seeming inability to appreciate the plight of those not blessed with it) sped them through the castle in the stark light of late afternoon. They passed a few students, stragglers coming back early from Hogsmeade. Hermione may have imagined it, but it looked like they did a double-take when they saw her and Draco together, whispering and giggling behind their hands.

More swiftly than she’d ever made the trip, they arrived in the Entrance Hall, and she tried to hide how winded she was. More students were returning from the village, and the place was now awash with noise and activity, but Draco didn’t seem to notice. He launched into the movements and master strokes of the same barrage of spells, and before long, an identical rainbow-streaked mist formed around the House Points Hourglasses.

He paused as before, watching the dance of colors surrounding the glasses. A look of triumph and satisfaction transformed his face as he released a breathy chuckle.

“There,” he said, pointing with his wand into the middle of it.

Hermione leaned over to see what he was seeing, and he wrapped a hand about her elbow to pull her directly in front of him. From close behind her, his voice rumbled against her back and filled her senses as she stared curiously at the sight.

“Both have the same magic at their core,” he said. “There’s a part missing from each of them, a thread that runs through the enchantment. See that white streak there?” His arm brushed against hers as he raised it over her shoulder to point out a thread of pearl running through the center. “That’s a layer that’s missing. It’s the space where a sort of catalyst would run through, making the whole thing work. With that bit removed, it collapses. It’s as though the spell was never activated, so it all—”

“Rewinds to the beginning?” she said, turning to look at him over her shoulder.

He nodded. “This catalyst isn’t just something the spells have in common; they’re _connected_ to each other. We need to find out how the Founders built the school from the ground up—”

“And if they integrated the Quill and the Hourglasses into the magic of the school itself.”

He took a deep breath and let it out in a rush. “Exactly.”

  
*******   


In those days, the flush of their youth had made them willing to do battle for its own sake, and they’d yet to learn the folly of allowing discord without purpose to drain their energy.

Disagreements, when they’d come (and it had been a rare day indeed when they had not), always happened around the first blush of midday. It’d been too early yet to break for lunch but just past the point where the morning’s caffeine had run its course through their systems. Draco and Hermione’s petrol tanks always seemed to empty in inverse proportion to their tempers, and every now and then things had gotten personal. Unfortunately, neither the Ministry nor the MLE took well to its employees stepping out for elevenses, so they just had to struggle through the mid-morning crankiness. 

“We’ve got all we need here, Malfoy. The Statute for the Regulation and Control of Potent Substances clearly categorizes Boomslang Skin as a Class-B material and thus, subject to limitations on its possession and use. There’s no question that Wilbert Wilkes is importing it in vast quantities—”

“For use in an experimental anti-inflammatory potion he needs for his mother’s rheumatoid arth—”

“Oh, come off it! He’s using it to brew Polyjuice by the barrel-full.”

“The prosecution hasn’t any compelling evidence to that effect, and in the absence of—”

“He’s got a shop in Knockturn Alley and proven Dark ties.”

“A nephew! Killed in the _First_ Wizarding War, as I recall.”

“Malfoy, he had the chance to present his records. He’s had ample opportunity to show exactly how he’s been using the ingredients in his store. His refusal to do so is telling.”

“Potioneers live and die by their confidentiality, Granger. If he’d handed over his log, there are people—”

“Well, perhaps those people deserve to be found out if they—”

“You know damn well there are plenty of sensitive potions in use – perfectly legal, mind you – which a great number of people would prefer to keep private. I would think, as a woman, you’d be able to empathize with at least some of them.”

Her cheeks heated at the implication, but she covered it with a scoff. “It’s more important to protect them than save himself? I don’t buy it.”

“If he breaks confidence with his patrons, he’ll be out of business. His family is relying on him. Their livelihood...” He trailed off, looking away to deny the personal issues that lay just below the surface. Swallowing heavily, he continued, “The Statute doesn’t expressly hold that Class-B materials are limited to any specific amounts. You’re stretching it by claiming that import and storage are a crime in and of themselves.”

“’Stretching?’ I’m trying to keep huge amounts of a dangerous potion off the streets! Think of the implications for law enforcement if there were Polyjuice being sold in those quantities. It’s prudent to assume that there’s a nefarious purpose for the Boomslang in this instance, and I for one feel comfortable with—”

“He’s the sole breadwinner for his mother and sister, Granger,” Draco had said, so quietly she was surprised she’d heard it over her bluster. Then he’d stood, gathering his things to leave. “I’m not going to concur with your evaluation. I’ll write a dissenting statement.”

“Don’t do it, Malfoy,” she blurted.

His eyes went wide, his expression incredulous. “I can’t sign-off on something that— I’ve known Wilkes my whole life. He’s not a Dark wizard. He doesn’t deserve this.”

“You don’t want to needlessly associate yourself with...” She huffed, struggling to find the right words, to keep her tone as neutral as possible. “Your reputation will be hurt. Possibly irrevocably.”

“I’m not sure it can be any further than it already has, Granger.”

“It can be if it looks like you’re fighting them still. If they can’t see how you’re trying...” Hermione’s conviction faded with each word she’d uttered until she gave it up for lost.

He looked at her as though he’d never seen her before. “ _They_ would have to be looking to even notice. They’d have to be willing to even believe change when they saw it,” he’d said so tightly, his jaw looked like it would break from the pressure. He got himself under control though, continuing much more coldly. “But I thank you for your concern. Your advice about reputations and associations is duly noted.”

He’d walked out calmly, his gait steady and unrushed, and she’d felt a shame overtake her with such force it rocked her to the core. She’d been right, but she suddenly felt as far from _righteous_ as she’d ever been.

It was hardly the first fight they’d had, and it was certainly not the last. Buried as they’d been, deep in the Archives, they’d generally had plenty of space and privacy to spread out and do battle as often and for as long as they’d pleased. They had done both to the fullest; each case had proven to be a long slog through both of their egos, superegos, and ids. And not necessarily in that order.

And little by little, they seemed to work through, past, and around all that was unspoken between them. They each found a healing in each other in that dark corner of the Archive, and Hermione felt an increasing easiness with herself and the world around her just feeling the ease between the two of them. But beyond the fighting and the healing and the occasional emotional minefield, the bottom line was that they had made an unbeatable team.

Rekindling that now was bewilderingly easy. 

The back table nearest the Restricted Section in the Hogwarts Library was disquietingly similar to the one they’d favored in the Archives, but neither of them said anything about it. They slipped into their old routine of reading, discussion, disagreement, stony silence, reading, discussion, and etcetera. It came with less of an edge to it now though, as the years had taught them which battles to fight and when to save their energy for greater things.

They’d made progress, finding that the Muggle-born Quill had been the brain-child of Helga Hufflepuff, proving she had indeed intended to ‘teach the lot and treat them just the same.’ The House Point Hourglasses had been the innovation of Rowena Ravenclaw, and she’d worked at them up until nearly the day the school opened.

The basic history was no problem to find; it was the step-by-step explanations of the magic behind the artifacts that was difficult to uncover, but that was little surprise to Draco and Hermione. Magic was most of the time jealously guarded and inventions kept as personal or professional legacy. The Founders had been far more open than most, being educators at heart, but there were some things that even the most detailed of accounts glossed over.

But the biggest stumbling blocks were the personal relationships that lay at the heart of it all. The close friendships and rivalries amongst them were celebrated as part of the mythology, but there had been very real negotiations necessary to make the whole prospect work; four of the keenest minds in wizarding history with the most potent magic were bound to butt heads eventually.

“It’s repeated everywhere in the Founders’ writings: ‘all must contribute,’ ‘each gives and gets equally,’ ‘a house stands with four walls or it collapses...’ It has to be behind the catalyst. There must be something they all worked on together,” Hermione said as she looked up from her notes to see Draco, bleary-eyed, rubbing his face roughly. It had been another long night, and this research they were doing every evening was making for very long days.

“It’s possible, but beyond the actual design and construction of the building itself, they didn’t all four work together on anything,” said Draco. “It’s well known they paired-up on various projects – Slytherin and Gryffindor, and then Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, of course. Surprisingly, some of the most successful collaboration seems to have been between Hufflepuff and Slytherin, but it ended abruptly for some reason.”

“Oh, yes. Around the year 1014?”

Draco checked his notes, then lifted his head, brow furrowed. “Yes, actually. Why?

“That was when Helena Ravenclaw stole the diadem and ran away, so Rowena sent the Bloody Baron after her daughter to fetch her, and... you know how that turned out,” Hermione said, shuddering slightly. The tale of the Baron killing Helena and then himself in a fit of spurned rage was her least favorite part of Hogwarts’ history.

“Why would that have anything to do with Hufflepuff’s relationship with Slytherin?”

“Well, being so close to her mother, Helena was like a treasured niece to Helga. The Baron was Slytherin’s second cousin.” At Draco’s utterly bewildered look, she supplied, “Helga was devastated by the loss of Helena and then by Rowena’s death soon after. She was horrified at what the Baron had done, and demanded retribution.”

“’Retribution?’ But what justice could be had? He’d already killed himself.”

“Slytherin had the body buried on Hogwarts’ grounds and refused to cast out his ghost, giving him a permanent home here. He felt beholden to the wishes of his family and believed the Baron had suffered enough. The chains the Baron wears are his own penitence; no one imposed them on him.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Draco sputtered incredulously. “There was absolutely no excuse for what the Baron— Resorting to violence toward a woman out of jealousy... there’s nothing acceptable or forgivable in that, and he deserved to be cast out,” he said fiercely, sitting back, arms crossed.

“I agree, Draco,” she said firmly, then looked away, trying to collect her thoughts. What she wanted to say was important, and she couldn’t think while looking at his flushed face and fiery eyes. “But... things aren’t always so black and white when family is involved. You don’t just turn your back on people you care about, and they don’t stop being your kin just because they’ve done something heinous.” Taking a deep breath, she looked back to meet his gaze. “We all find ourselves at times with no simple middle-ground between right and wrong. And most deserve forgiveness if they can find the strength within themselves to seek for it.”

The subtext was hardly deep beneath the surface, but however inelegant the discussion, it was long overdue. Draco had a look on his face as though he’d never seen her before, and Hermione recognized the expression. This time, she felt on the righteous side of things. She hadn’t many regrets, and she had very little to apologize for, but she always breathed easier when the air was cleared.

Draco agreed silently with a single nod.

A little shaky but wanting to get the discussion back on track, Hermione cleared her throat and said, “It’s legend that the rift and the intensity of emotion behind it is responsible for the particular antipathy between the Houses of Slytherin and Hufflepuff. Slytherin thinks the other to be unbearably simplistic in its ideals, and Hufflepuff finds their motives completely unfathomable.”

“Well,” he said with a smirk, “I see there is some sense in all that madness then?” 

Hermione threw a balled-up piece of parchment at his face.

  
*******   


Crushes never seem to happen all at once.

First, you meet a person, or just start spending more and more time with an acquaintance, and nothing is unusual at first. But as time goes on, you find yourself thinking about them when they’re not around: how interesting your discussions with them are; how much they annoy you when they do such-and-such; how much they make you laugh. Denial begins somewhere around the time you start taking extra care with how you look on the days you’ll see them, or out-and-out wearing what you know will get their attention, though you pretend that it has nothing whatsoever to do with them. 

Then one day, the clouds part, the angels sing, or the metaphorical equivalent of an anvil falls on your head, and you can’t deny it anymore. You have to admit that you feel more alive when you’re with them, and you look forward to every moment you spend with them. But the ever-present weight of uncertainty makes your swelling heart ache with every beat.

Hermione had gone through all the stages of her crush on Draco Malfoy a year into their working together and from there had nowhere to go but down. She’d assiduously kept herself from gazing into his eyes, giggling at his jokes, or arguing with him too fiercely, but she’d still felt like it was written all over her face. 

For six months she’d lived with it, telling herself that it had just been about loneliness, or proximity, or post-traumatic stress. But when her life suddenly shifted back to something closer to normal – Harry and Ginny returned from the other side of the world and with them, the Weasleys from the dark side of the moon – her rationalizations had been inconveniently debunked.

On one hand, she had been thrilled to be again amongst her friends, feeling like herself and like the events of her life up to then had context and purpose. But on the other, she’d felt like a secret was brewing inside her, like there was always a piece of her that was with Draco when she was with her friends. With Harry’s homecoming had come the return of the old Ron, and with _that_ , the renewal of his affections. 

It would have been so simple if she’d no longer felt the same for Ron, or if she’d known for sure he was the one for her. But she’d wanted all of it and none at the same time, and she’d felt poised at a crossroads where a choice might have to be made, one she had positively no desire to make.

Draco had sensed it, she’d been sure of it. Suddenly, he’d started asking pointed questions about her friends and what she was doing with her time. She’d thought they had an unspoken agreement to pretend like anything not in their little corner of the universe (between the hours of nine in the morning to seven at night at the latest) didn’t exist. But what had been worse was the tone he’d used when asking; there’d been a slightly wistful curiosity, very little snark, and a lot of resignation.

Hermione had felt like she was teetering on the edge, and all the longing and resistance, attraction and irritation, happiness and suffering was set to burst through her skin and set her aflame.

But then it all had been taken out of her hands. 

The terms of Draco’s plea bargain had only stipulated volunteer service at the Ministry for a year; after that, pending approval from the MLE, employment in any capacity would fulfill his agreement, and he was free to move on as he chose. Hermione had thought he took as much enjoyment in their research as she did, but when he’d come to her to tell her that he was going to enter training to become a Curse-Breaker – in _France_ , of all places – she’d lost what little grip she’d had on this madness called infatuation.

“But you hate French food.”

Draco had abruptly stopped straightening his work area in preparation to leave for the evening and had lifted his head slowly. Raising one eyebrow, he’d leveled her with a look of utter disbelief. “When did I say that?”

“Just a few months ago, you went on and on about how baguettes made you angry, with their much too crunchy outsides that hurt your gums, and their way too chewy texture that was too much of a strain on your jaw, and their way too little actual _bread_ , I think was the way you put it, that makes them completely no use whatsoever...” She’d realized somewhere halfway through that not only had she been babbling, but that she’d just admitted to memorizing his opinions about obscure foodstuffs. She’d blushed accordingly.

“I figure I can make it a couple of years eating something other than sandwiches, Granger,” he’d said, smirking. 

“French people are rude.”

“So am I,” he’d said, his smirk widening to a grin. “I should fit in rather well, don’t you think?”

“Not that kind of rude, Malfoy,” she’d said with a huff, ignoring the brightness in his eyes and the way he’d leaned against the table, settling in like he was enjoying this. “They don’t have any concept of forming queues. They just push and shove their way to the front and don’t wait their turn. It’s utter chaos.”

“I’ll be sure to work on my jostling and elbowing before I get there.”

“You know the French aren’t as clean—”

“ _That_ is a myth, and an unkind one at that. I’m shocked that you would stoop to stereotypes and—”

“—and most of their dairy isn’t pasteurized and it’s all just... unclean. It scares me.”

“Everything scares you, Granger.”

He’d said it lowly, with an edge that wasn’t at all about teasing. It had been a clear challenge, and the darkness of his eyes matched it. 

Hermione had been taken aback, breathless for a long moment, perched on the edge, with the only choice to leap forward into the unknown or never find her way back again. But she was incapable of resisting rising to challenges, and as she’d stood there breathless and wide-eyed in the face of his stare-down, she realized she’d had it with keeping her hands and her feelings to herself. So, eyes narrowed, her stance more stalking than seductive, she’d walked toward him, her eyes locked on his. 

Draco had looked welcoming, standing out there on his own ledge, ready to leap with her and follow wherever she was willing to go.

When she got there, he’d widened his legs slightly so she’d reached him with no trouble, but that’s all the help he’d given. She’d had to take his jaw in both hands to angle him, tipping him one way while her head moved the other. 

When her lips met his, he’d raised only one hand to her elbow, cradling it lightly in his hand, as though it was apt to break with too much pressure. He’d responded to the kiss with a soft ‘mmmh’ that had seemed to come from deep in his chest. It had caused a burn in her belly that seemed all too appropriate for this crushing mess they were in.

She’d pulled away after what had felt like hours, and he’d just looked at her. Cheeks flushed and lips swollen, his eyes had remained cool, questioning. She’d stood still and held his gaze through sheer will, wanting to run, or to raise her hand to her mouth to feel the heat left from his late-in-the-day stubble, or to slip her fingers back into his hair to pull him in for another snog. 

But when she’d finally spoken, it was to blurt, “I have to meet my friends for dinner, so I—” And then she’d frozen, surely looking as scared as he’d accused her of being, knowing she’d failed an important test.

With a lone, decisive nod, he’d dropped his head, as though she’d just confirmed something he’d known all along. He’d turned to pick up his things from behind him on the table, straightened stiffly, and pushed past her to walk out of the Archive. 

They’d never spoken of it again, but there wasn’t much chance to. His final day of work was just three days later, and he’d left for the Continent shortly after that.

Hermione would never forgive Draco for making _her_ kiss _him_. There was no way of rationalizing it, like if she’d got caught up in something and been out of control; it was she who had done it all. No shelter for the insecure could be found in that, and she’d agonized over it for countless days and nights afterward.

But she also could never forgive herself for kissing him. She’d never had any business going near Draco’s heart when she’d not had the fortitude or the full intention of seeing it through. 

She couldn’t find any hurt or censure in Draco all these years later though, and that was less and less a relief as time passed. It left her wondering whether that time they’d had together had meant anything to him, or at least anything close to what it had meant to her. Working with him like this, in the Hogwarts Library every evening and through weekends, it was impossible for Hermione not to think constantly on those days and wonder if she could have held onto his affection if she’d had the courage to try. 

There was something clinging to him though, some sadness or discomfort that seemed to have him on edge as though he was never fully present, like he was never really in his own skin. It was beginning to distract her, and since they seemed to have hit a bit of a plateau in their research, she’d been devoting a lot of time lately to simply studying him when they were together and thinking of him when they were apart. 

Blockages like this had a tendency to happen when one was on a long project, and sometimes you couldn’t force your way through it but instead had to wait for inspiration to strike. Draco seemed to still be battling it, but Hermione had long since gone for the path of least resistance, her mind on everything but what they were there to accomplish.

“What made you decide to come back?” she asked, hushed due to the late hour, though the library was all but deserted and they were shrouded in the soft, near-darkness of only a few candles.

It took a moment for Draco’s head to raise from where it hung over a large tome about tenth-century wizarding architecture, and an even longer moment of blank-faced blinking for him to register what she’d said. She could see when it happened, his face settling into a wary mask, but she’d purposely asked a question that couldn’t be answered with ‘yes’ or ‘no,’ so there was nowhere for him to hide. 

He cleared his throat, ran his fingers through is hair, took a deep breath and let it out slowly, leaning back in his chair before he was ready to begin. “I’d done all I could there.”

“What do you mean, in your career?”

“No.”

Hermione sighed and tried again, determined. “What do you mean?”

Draco looked away, thinking for a moment, and when he spoke again, his eyes were focused on the rows of books over her shoulder.

“The work was rewarding. I’d wanted to be a Curse-Breaker for years; I didn’t have any ulterior motive for going into it or anything like that. It was convenient that it meant getting away from a lot here, but I’d wanted to do it.” He squirmed a bit in his seat and crossed his arms over his chest. “But... being away from here, being able to accomplish something without the past or my family name hanging over me was such a relief.” He looked back to her then, his eyes bright. “I was anonymous over there. Every success was _mine_ , and not something bought, and not something I had to struggle against my past to achieve, and nothing I did was for any purpose but for myself.

“But I realized I’d done all I could there because there was no great satisfaction in it if I’d had to change who I was to do it. Does that make sense?” He let out a breath as though he’d been holding it for days as she nodded. “I realized I wasn’t really finished with the past if I’d only _moved away_ from it. I wanted to really get _through_ it, to be excised of it. I wanted to see if I could have everything I wanted even being myself.” Here, he smiled. “Even if there’s no way to truly get beyond it all, I needed to try. Even if it doesn’t work out.”

“’If it doesn’t work out?’ You’re not sure of it yet?” she asked, her stomach dropping a bit at the thought.

He merely shrugged, and she thought she saw a flash of regret in his eyes before he blinked it away. His whole posture changed then, and she knew instinctively that she wouldn’t be getting anything more from him that night. 

“What about you? What made you decide to come back?” he asked.

Hermione found herself rather uncomfortable with the tables turned. Now it was she who couldn’t look him in the eye, but fair was fair, and she would answer him honestly. She likewise took a deep breath before beginning. 

“After Ron and I split, it was good to make a complete break. To get away from the Ministry, to try something new. I needed to try something new.”

“It didn’t work out between you two?” he asked softly, and she might have imagined it, but he seemed surprised, like he wasn’t aware of it before.

“Not the relationship, though we gave it more than a fair try – ten years of it, actually. But the friendship, yeah,” she said with a smile and the warm feeling in her chest to match. “That’s worked out just fine.”

It had taken a bit to get there. After she and Ron had finally called it quits after long years of trying to figure out how to negotiate natures so different, Hermione had needed to be somewhere unusual, so that every day wasn’t filled at every turn with reminders of failure and futility and struggle. 

It was then she’d understood Harry and Ginny’s flight to freedom after the war, though it wasn’t on foreign shores where she’d found her peace as they had. It was in the familiar, in coming home that she’d found healing and happiness. Coming back to Hogwarts, the comforting constant of her life, became the way into her future.

Seeing Draco across from her now, looking at her with empathy and openness but no accusations or demands, she realized she’d made a miscalculation. Hermione hadn’t counted on this hopeful grasp for her future putting her in the path of the most nagging ghost from her past.


	3. Chapter 3

As remote as the island was that Draco and Hermione would construct around themselves and their pursuits, there always remained a world outside that ultimately could not be ignored. And though this time they’d hoped to keep control over what was happening out there through the sheer power of foreknowledge, that world started heating up again about a month into their research.

One morning, while Hermione was rushing about her suite getting ready for class after a particularly late start, there was a sudden groaning, screeching noise that vibrated up from the floor beneath her feet, shaking the windows. Hurrying out her door to investigate, she saw a half-dozen silver cats bounding through the air and down the corridor, the last of them turning to gambol up to her, its glowing face strangely serious as McGonagall’s voice said, “Professor, please make your way to the Entrance Hall as soon as possible.”

Hermione was caught up in a rush of a group of other teachers and students all headed the same direction. When they arrived, it was to see the not-unusual sight of dozens of students on each of the four main moving staircases. What was strange, however, was that each of them had stopped moving, all still and pointing toward empty space. There were clouds of dust in the air, and a few fissures were showing in the sides of the great stone staircases, indicating that they’d all stopped abruptly enough to cause damage to the structures. 

The Headmistress was organizing the evacuation of the stranded students with the help of the staff, and pairs of them were Levitating them one by one to safety. Scanning the area, Hermione found Draco, his wand moving rapidly over a spell that was constructing a sort of suspension bridge for the kids on one of the sets of stairs to walk across. He must have sensed her, because his concentration wavered for just a second as his eyes flicked to meet her gaze. What she saw there was a strain she’d never before seen.

Hermione leapt into helping with the rescue of the students, all of whom were less frightened than distracted by the excitement and intrigue, and soon she was standing in a mostly empty corridor with McGonagall and Draco. Diagnostics showed the same catalyst missing from the enchantment controlling the staircases. All it took was a tight “Well then?” from the headmistress, and the two of them launched into a furious explanation of their findings. Beginning with the issue of the missing catalyst from each of the malfunctioning enchantments and then moving into their slightly less-firm theories, they were like a couple of third-years on the spot.

“See, we’ve found a repetition of the same theme, ‘all must contribute equally,’ and lots of bits about them ‘working together or not at all,’ so we’ve thought...”

“...We found that the Quill was the work of Helga Hufflepuff, and of course, the moving floor plan, including the staircases, were the innovation of Rowena Ravenclaw, so with the Hourglasses, that makes two that...”

“...And we’ve been thinking that one of Gryffindor’s primary creations was the Sorting Hat, so—”

“Yeah, we need to have a look at the Hat,” said Draco, ending the proceedings rather curtly.

McGonagall’s response was not unexpected, but one they’d both been avoiding. “And for Slytherin? Other than the Chamber of Secrets, which wasn’t a part of the original structure, what did he contribute that was his own?”

“Well,” Hermione began uncomfortably, pausing to clear her throat, “it seems he was the one who created the Room of Requirement. Since that’s... been destroyed for years, we don’t know where else to look for his contributions.”

“Could that have had anything to do with it?” McGonagall asked sharply. “What if the destruction of that is what’s pulling the catalyst from the others? Could that one thing missing be keeping each of the Founders from having an equal contribution?”

“I think too many years have gone by,” Draco said softly. “There has to have been some more recent event that precipitated these incidents.”

McGonagall immediately agreed, instructing them to come to her office after classes that afternoon to test the Sorting Hat. She left with prim efficiency, with no castigations whatsoever in her thin-lipped concern, but Draco looked to be taking it all very much to heart in a way that was surprising to Hermione. He left with no farewell other than a detached nod, and Hermione spent the rest of the day stewing in her anxiety, watching the children carefully for any reactions other than the thrill of that morning’s adventure.

When they tested it, the Hat had worryingly seemed to have lost all of its capacity to prognosticate and was even more distressingly speaking in straightforward prose. Investigation showed the same missing piece, and with very little said among them, Draco and Hermione left to put in another long evening of research. 

Each reached for the nearest tome on Salazar Slytherin, an unspoken agreement between them that the one Founder seemingly untouched by the breakdowns was surely the key to unraveling this mystery.

From that day forward, things seemed to happen quickly.

Only a couple of days later, time itself stopped as the mighty pendulum in the Clock Tower ground slowly to a halt. This was another piece of Hogwarts designed by Helga Hufflepuff, and the same expected circumstances surrounded its failure. McGonagall worried, to Draco and Hermione only, that she might have to call in the Ministry to investigate, and Hermione had long since begun to agree with that course of action. If she and Draco didn’t have luck figuring this out (and Hermione had a pretty strong track record for solving complex problems – if she was feeling concerned there was something to it), she wondered at what point they would have to admit their need for intervention.

Though McGonagall maintained to the students that it all was an expected part of routine maintenance given the age of the castle, on the whole, few seemed to be buying it.

What Hermione had so assiduously sought in their young faces and fearless attitudes began to show then, as though she’d conjured it herself. The students seemed unbalanced by the missing clock, the silencing of the ever-present ‘tick-tock’ unsettling them, some pull of the pendulum missing from their days and putting everyone decidedly on edge. Real tensions between the Houses arose, proving that trying to keep them all in the dark wasn't a help. It didn’t matter if they knew what precisely what was behind the malfunctions; they knew there was something wrong, and they all felt it equally.

The timing of the final Quidditch Game of the season, with Ravenclaw and Slytherin doing battle for the Quidditch Cup, couldn’t have been more poorly timed. There had already been tension between the two, as they had been in fierce contention all year for the House Cup; at the time the Hourglasses reset themselves, they were neck and neck with Ravenclaw having only a slight lead. A few fights had broken out between the opposing Quidditch players in the days leading up to the match, and it had spilled over to cause even some of the most even-keeled students to push and shove each other in the hallways. Detentions were being handed out left and right. 

On the day prior to the big game, Slytherin’s team was at the pitch for their scheduled practice. Sometime after releasing the Bludgers and Snitch, the projectiles started to behave oddly. They traveled faster and faster, in ever-wider arcs around the playing area, not sticking to the tight field but shooting over the stands as they made their loops. The players gamely tried to steer them back, but they eventually broke free entirely, flying out and around the pitch itself and over the grounds. No one was hurt in the initial incident, but the Bludgers were flying haphazardly about, and it was a close-run thing for all the students to get back in the castle to safety as they were chased down.

Draco and Hermione were in the library as usual when they heard the commotion, and they ran down to the Entrance Hall to find a group of rattled and exhausted youths in Quidditch gear. The few Ravenclaws who had been studying in the Great Hall got an earful of their ire and accusation, and more than one fight had to be broken up. 

At this point, McGonagall had no choice but to call in the Aurors; children had been in direct danger, and if there were sabotage on that level, it would be precisely the business of law enforcement. 

As it happened, Ron was Auror on-call that evening. When he arrived, Draco gestured to Hermione with a toss of his head toward the outer door, intimating that he was about to go run tests on the pitch. She watched him go, distracted, wanting to follow him and only partly listening to Ron interviewing the players and eyewitnesses. 

His colleague, Timms, had made only a cursory examination of the pitch, but had been apparently successful in capturing the rogue Bludgers. Hermione was still staring off in a daze when Ron finished his work and came back to her. She wasn’t sure how long he’d been standing there before he spoke.

“So, is it still like returning home?” he asked softly. When she looked to him, startled, he gestured vaguely indicating the castle around them, his smile knowing.

“Not exactly,” she said, her laugh only a little forced. “Some things do change with time.”

He nodded, looked away, then seemed to force himself to speak his next words. “Working with Malfoy, then? Again?” 

The last word was said almost as an afterthought, and Hermione’s heart skipped a beat. Though it was over a decade ago, she still had strange feelings about how she’d flirted with not only the idea of Draco, but Draco himself, and how that had happened at a time when she’d been trying to find her way with Ron. 

It wasn’t betrayal; she’d promised and been promised nothing. It was confusing though, for all of them, and she knew he wouldn’t have understood then had she tried to discuss her conflicting feelings with him.

“Yeah, working together on various projects...” 

As she trailed off, his eyes narrowed, and for a moment he looked as though he was about to ask her something before he changed his mind.

Clearing his throat, he said, “So. Mum won’t let it rest about you coming for Sunday dinner.”

She sighed. “You know I can’t make it easily during the school year. It’s always difficult to get away from the castle on Sundays.”

“Yeah, Hermione, _I_ know that,” he said with an eye-roll. “But you know Mum, and I swear, she’s still blaming me, like I’ve driven you away. In fact, I think she accused me of doing exactly that. And, ‘don’t I know that you’re like a daughter to her, and wouldn’t it be nice if you could be around all the time again...?’ You know. The usual. You gotta save me from this.”

“Alright, alright,” Hermione said with an exasperated laugh. “I’ll owl her this week, okay? Explain things. Again.”

“That’s all I ever ask, dear. Just a little bit of help with Mum. Well, that and uninterrupted Quidditch.” He winked, leaning in to kiss her cheek as he turned to go. 

He turned halfway, stopping short as Draco came through the door and blocked his path. There was only a moment between the two of them, and it was far more surprised than tense. 

Then, with a nod, Ron said, “Malfoy.”

“Weasley,” Draco replied.

Neither had an edge to their voice, and each moved a little to the side to let the other one pass. Miraculously, all of this had happened without the world coming to an end, Hermione thought wryly. She ignored the skip of her own heartbeat and the sigh that escaped her in relief, deciding not to name the feeling of warmth in her chest as closure.

She didn’t say anything about it to Draco and just listened as he went through the predictable details of his tests and remarks that they needed to try out some other avenue of inquiry or another. Apparently, the wards that surrounded the pitch which kept the Bludgers from flying into the stands had simply stretched and broke. 

The construction of the Quidditch Pitch was something advocated for and supervised by Godric Gryffindor; the sport in its current form didn’t yet exist in his time, but there were different types of broom racing and passing games that were early precursors of it, and the original boundaries of the wards dated back to his time.

“Why are the enchantments simply stalling now, instead of rewinding to the beginning like the Quill and the Hourglasses?” she interrupted. “They’re _breaking_ , instead of simply reverting to a state prior to the incantation that activated them.”

Brow furrowed, he answered as though he were figuring it out as he spoke. “It’s an escalation of whatever is causing this. Whatever is at the root of these incidents, it seems to be... gaining in urgency. It’s seeking to destroy now, not just negate, to take down instead of just treat as inconsequential.”

Draco went on, but she lost the thread of the conversation when she was struck suddenly with an overwhelming sense of dread and the sure promise of doom about to fall. 

Not for the first time, Hermione senses proved correct.

  


*******  


The next day was Saturday, and since the final Quidditch match could not take place, something had to be done to keep the students occupied. Each Head of House did their best to organize activities for each: Hufflepuff went on a hike through the Forbidden Forest; Slytherin held a series of races on the lawn in front of the Lake; Ravenclaw broke up into teams and had a quiz show in the Great Hall, and Gryffindor organized a treasure hunt through the castle that ended with a party in their common room.

All of this served to keep them busy and happy on that lovely spring day, but McGonagall insisted on some inter-house unity, hoping for some healing of tension in the process. She’d organized a reception in the courtyard after dinner that night, and most students were in attendance. They’d split themselves initially into groups mainly according to House, but there had been no fighting. 

Hermione had stationed herself near the refreshments and was helping the house-elves keep everything stocked (only so much as they would allow her assistance, of course). She was cheered when, an hour into it, a few seventh-year Ravenclaws crossed the vast expanse of cobblestone to talk to some sixth-year Slytherins. 

There followed after that some general clumping together of the rest into what could have only charitably been called ‘mingling,’ but it was enough to satisfy McGonagall. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the fifth-year Slytherins Mitchell Gibbon and Greta Carmichael lurking in a corner, but she turned away satisfied when she saw Draco join them.

Soon Hermione was embroiled in drama of her own. One of her sixth-year Hufflepuffs, one Lacey Rabnott, came up to her with tears brimming and ready to spill over. She’d been one of Hermione’s favorite students since she’d first started teaching, as the girl had quite an aptitude for Charms and a propensity to unapologetically blow away the rest of the class. 

As it turned out, Lacey had just begun dating a Slytherin seventh-year by the name of Bertie Maddock, and they’d just had a fight. Bertie seemed to think it likely that Ravenclaw had sabotaged the pitch in order to hurt the Slytherin team, and she had vigorously defended the honor of the House as well as some of her friends within it. The fight had quickly escalated.

She had no idea what to say to Lacey, other than empty platitudes about ‘angers cooling’ and ‘time healing.’ While doing her best to comfort the girl, Hermione caught Draco’s eye from across the courtyard. Deep in conversation with Gibbon and Carmichael, his lips were pursed and he looked annoyed, but just seeing him there brought clarity to her.

What had she known about navigating waters such as these when she’d been Lacey’s age? She’d fought a war to try to unite the wizarding world, but there would never completely be an end to this sort of strife.

Teenagers brought about their own, intractable conflicts and complications and would until the end of time. But just growing up, simply having to live in a world that was not black and white (much less only red, green, yellow and blue) did more than any adult trying to calm a confused and lovesick girl would ever do. Hermione was about to launch into a speech when a shrill scream rent the evening in two. 

It echoed against the stones of the courtyard and was followed by a chorus of piercing cries to match. Hermione looked frantically about, but couldn’t see what had started it. Terror quickly took over and the students started moving, pushing and shoving their way into the castle. 

Abruptly, she noticed that many of them were looking up and pointing, sheer horror on their faces. All of them were in a rush to go, to run, to escape. A new series of screams began from the students as they were nearly trampled by the crowd trying to move in the enclosed space. She heard McGonagall’s voice rising over the din, working furiously to control the mob.

Keeping her hold on Lacey’s hand, Hermione looked up, searching what sky she could see through the walls of the courtyard. Then a warm hand wrapped around her elbow and yanked her to turn with the crush of people moving inside. She jerked her head down to see Draco, his lips pressed into a tight line, his eyes haunted, and his other arm guiding Gibbon and Carmichael through the crowd. 

And then she saw it. High above her, stark and blatant in the sky. Vulgar in its power to provoke, it chilled her blood more than the sounds of fear from the children around her. The symbol from her adolescence, the thing she saw still in her nightmares, had reappeared for the first time in over a decade. There it was, emblazoned against the starless sky with misty green: a skeleton’s head and the coil of a snake, carrying with it the memory of death.

The world blurred and spun for a moment as she was taken by the force of remembrance. 

Then, as Draco yanked her forward by the arm, Hermione took a deep breath. Every muscle in her body wanted to run, but she’d never given into that impulse before and she wouldn’t now. 

Stumbling forward with the crowd through the too-narrow doorways back into the castle, she felt the hand around her elbow slide down and wrap around her hand. She squeezed it, taking a quick moment to glance at his face, bracing him with a look. Anchored to each other, they made it back into the Great Hall.

Busying herself with gathering the kids to sit at their House tables for a head count, she lost track of Draco, engrossed in reassuring the students. Her tension and her heartbeat eased as it appeared no one was missing, and the injuries were only bumps and bruises. When the Auror squad arrived, she vaguely noted that it included Ron and his partner, Timms, but she was too busy with the students to speak to them.

They’d been there taking statements for about a half hour when a scuffle over by the Slytherin table caught Hermione’s attention.

McGonagall, Ron, Timms, and Draco all stood at the head of the table, and here and there a voice was raised, but she couldn’t tell what the fight was about until she drew nearer. Draco had placed himself with his back to the table, standing in between the Aurors and the students, and McGonagall was at his side. Ron was a bit removed, watching warily but not appearing to be a part of things, and Hermione came to stand beside him. Timms, red-faced and huffy, seemed to be the one heading the offensive.

“As I have said, Mr Timms, I have the authority here, and I won’t permit it.”

“In cases where there is probable cause to suspect—” 

“ _What_ cause? ‘Suspicion of having relatives who _may_ have done something bad once upon a time?'” Draco spat.

“You, Professor Malfoy, probably shouldn’t be so disdainful of that sort of suspicion. There seems to be plenty of proof that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” Timms said snidely.

Draco’s voice turned cold. “Again, I believe you’re mistaking accusation and opinion for guilt, Mr Timms. If you got your head out of your arse for more than—”

“That’s enough, Professor Malfoy,” McGonagall said tightly.

Timm’s voice raised an octave and doubled in volume. “I’m not going to be insulted when I’m simply executing Auror procedure.”

“Is it ‘Auror procedure,’ then,” Draco said, “for you to cast about blindly for leads out of thin air?”

“If you have such a problem with me testing the students’ wands without cause, then perhaps we should ask people to volunteer? Maybe you should go first,” Timms growled.

Draco’s eyes narrowed and he said something too low for Hermione to hear. Whatever it was, it prompted Timms to take a step toward Draco before Ron reached out to grab his arm. Draco moved forward himself, words still coming lowly from between his clenched teeth. McGonagall put her hand on his shoulder to pull him back. 

There was a quick, heavy moment where it looked like it would come to blows. But then a banging noise drew their attention to the double doors of the Great Hall as they swung wide open, and the Head Auror made his entrance.

Harry walked steadily and unhurriedly down the center aisle of the Hall, the two Aurors who had been investigating outside following behind him. Seeing the tense congregation by the Slytherin table, he headed toward them, looking as exhausted as Hermione had ever seen him. His hair was sticking out in all directions, his robe was wrinkled and looking like it was in its second day of wear, and he had a splotch of what looked like spit-up from his youngest on his lapel.

As he got within easy speaking range of their group, he said, stifling a yawn, “Yep. That’s a Dark Mark alright.” 

The more tired Harry got, the more bluntly he spoke. He’d always been like that, but it could be a shock to those who didn’t know him. 

He stood, hands fisted on his hips, looking at the assemblage gaping at him for a second before saying, “Well, anyone have anything to share with me?”

Timms launched into his explanation of how he _would_ have something to give him if _they_ had simply let him do his job and test the wands of each of the students for the last spells cast, beginning, naturally, with the Slytherins. McGonagall and Draco stood throughout in stony silence, while Harry listened to the Auror speak with a perfectly blank expression. When Timms finished, Harry took a deep breath and began simply and without emotion.

“Timms, it would be helpful if you could find the time to read some of those laws you’re sworn to uphold,” Harry said, removing his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose as he continued. “In the absence of any probable cause to suspect any witch or wizard of wrongdoing, no unauthorized search of their person or testing of their wand may be performed.” Putting his glasses back on, he leveled a rather bored look at Timms. “In the case of minors, the test for cause is even more rigorous, and in the case of Hogwarts students on the castle grounds, there are issues of consent that must be approved by the headmaster or headmistress,” he finished with a nod to McGonagall.

“But sir, in the case of Dark magic—”

“What ‘Dark magic?’” he said with a sigh. “ _Morsmordre_ is about as ‘Dark’ as a five Galleon box of Weasleys’ Wildfire Whizz-bangs. It’s a light show, nothing more. Now... nobody’s dead, right?” 

Even Hermione winced at Harry’s bluntness, but his point was well taken. As he looked around, all assembled shook their heads. 

“No one? Alright then. We’ve checked the wards surrounding the grounds and the barriers at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, and everything’s intact. In the absence of any breakdown of security or any actual laws being broken, it seems more than likely that this was a student prank. Not a very funny one, but...” He shrugged and rolled his shoulders, then looked around expectantly. “Anyone have anything to add? Then we’re done here. Head back, Timms, Roberts, Bankwith.” He nodded to the other Aurors and waited for them to leave before turning to Ron. “Can you straighten out the paperwork? I’ve gotta be in Romania in...” He checked his watch. “A half hour. Bugger. We’ve got to do something about that wanker Timms,” he said lowly, shaking his head.

“Yeah, yeah, so you keep saying,” said Ron as he pushed by Harry to leave the Hall.

“Well... when we have time, yeah?” Harry said tiredly, rubbing his forehead. He turned to Hermione. “Ginny keeps asking me if I’ve invited you to Albus’ birthday party and I keep telling her I have, so... consider yourself invited and pretend I did this weeks ago, alright?” 

“Sure, Harry, I’d _love_ to,” she said as he thanked her guilelessly and kissed her cheek.

“Headmistress, it’s always a pleasure.” Harry shook her hand gently and turned. “Malfoy,” he said, hand extended, his manner as cursory as usual.

There was only a slight moment of surprise from Draco before he mechanically put forward his hand to take Harry’s, squeezing firmly and shaking decisively. It was a perfectly ordinary moment. Harry turned to leave, his robes billowing with the swiftness of his stride from the Hall, and the ever-present whispers followed in his wake.

“So. The _Great_ Harry Potter,” Draco said, watching him go, his tone forcing itself into irony.

“Yeah,” Hermione said, her smile genuine, the feeling of dread dissipating and something like joy forming at the look of respect on Draco’s face. “The one and only.”


	4. Chapter 4

Hermione was now certain that being pushed toward tackling this project with Draco was a purposeful ploy on the part of the scheming portrait of Albus Dumbledore. Because surely only he would have wrought this kind of infuriating mischief. Only he would have tickled the sleeping dragon just to see what would happen.

Six weeks into it, their research had long since passed the mere plateau stage, where they hit a snag and were spinning their wheels waiting for inspiration to move them along. This went far beyond that into a frustrated hopelessness, and Hermione was uncharacteristically pessimistic about it. Between the pressure from outside this room to solve the mystery as soon as possible and the unbearable tension inside it, she was fit to burst.

Draco had thrown himself into it in the past week with renewed energy, coming up with the very thinnest of theories that bore only the barest possibilities of being useful. Since the appearance of the Dark Mark, he’d been like a man possessed, his dedication unwavering. And damned if he wasn’t the most attractive thing Hermione had ever seen; under the circumstances, she felt like that was a rather inappropriate response. Of course, this contributed to her frustration, her paranoia, and her belief in the mischievous spirit who had no doubt schemed her into this mess.

Something had to be done.

It was the usual late evening, in their usual spot in the Hogwarts Library, and they’d been there for the requisite number of hours since the end of teaching that afternoon. Hermione had taken most of that time to grade the written exams of her third-year class, but Draco had been at it solid, muttering to himself as he walked back and forth between the stacks and the table, flipping through his notes, looking nearly crazed in his purpose. 

She understood his urgency, as things had been fraught with tension in the corridors and classrooms of Hogwarts lately. Since the previous Saturday’s scare, Muggle-borns and half-bloods were looking at all the pure-bloods, and not just from Slytherin, with suspicion, and the pure-bloods were understandably defensive. Even the staff was affected, and only the most objective of teachers could keep from looking at each of their students with wariness.

But it was no way to live, at least not for very long, and something _had_ to be done. Hermione was growing weary of the mystery and of the frustration she felt for the only person she had to share it with. She and Draco had been beating their heads up against a wall while doing some intricate dance around each other and their feelings, and she was exhausted from the strain.

Very suddenly, at seven minutes to eleven, she’d had enough.

“Let it go, Draco. At least for tonight,” she called toward his retreating form as it disappeared into the shadows of the aisle directly in front of their workspace.

“I’ll close up, Granger, you go on ahead,” came Draco’s muffled reply.

Getting up and rounding the table, she did everything but stomp her feet in a huff. She planted herself with her hands on her hips and tapped her foot, waiting for him to return. When he continued his dithering up the aisle, she said, more loudly this time, “There’s nothing more to be done right now, if at all. We should just accept that we’re going to have to call on the Ministry to get this sorted, and—”

That was apparently the exact right thing to say (or exact _wrong_ thing, depending on the perspective), because the sound of a book slamming preceded the sight of him charging back toward her. He stopped right at the edge of the bookcases, cloaked partially in shadow, but the look on his face was frantic.

“No. You know it’ll get out of control and... we need to be able to deliver facts to them. We can’t let them take this over and just tear through the school looking under every...” He made an angry noise in his throat and turned away, raking his fingers through his hair.

“But we don’t have any facts,” she said evenly. “I’m at a loss, and I don’t know what else we can do.”

“Well, what we can _do_ is not give up so easily,” he snapped, turning to head back down through the stacks. “I still have some questions about—”

“Draco, you’re being—”

He whipped back around. “I’m not going to let the students be run over by a squad of Aurors if there’s anything I can do about it!” He stood there fuming, but underneath the anger was such a profound look of fear, it took her breath away.

“It’s unlikely to be the Auror squad,” she said evenly. “I understand the risk of any part of the Ministry getting involved in Hogwarts affairs, but it will probably be Unspeakables, and they’ll be able to—”

“No. You know they’ll send the MLE, the Aurors, even the Hit Wizards in here if they suspect there’s anything to do with Salazar Slytherin and his lot.”

“What do you think they’re going to find?” she asked at no more than a whisper. “Just what are you afraid of, Draco?”

“I’m not afraid of anything, Granger,” he said tightly, straightening and pulling a mask down over the emotion she’d seen for just a fleeting moment. “I was asked to do a job. _You_ asked me to do that job, and it isn’t finished.” With that, he turned finally and strode back to where he’d been working amongst the books.

Seeing him like this and feeling as she did, Hermione suddenly deflated, all the pretenses and defenses that kept her going fleeing in an instant. “Really?” she said, toward Draco’s back, but it almost didn’t matter to her if he heard. “I’m scared. And I’m tired of being scared.” 

She could just make out that he’d stopped, and she could see his pale head as it turned toward her. His face was all but obscured in shadow, but she held herself still looking at him, trying to keep her breathing steady under her suddenly speeding heart. That heart of hers nearly stopped as he began walking back toward her, and her knees went weak at the look on his face when he came out just into the light. 

Leaning his shoulder against the bookcase, he cocked his head to the side, and there was a tender hopefulness on his face that matched the tone of his voice as he asked, “What scares you, Granger?”

She inhaled deeply and breathed, “Everything.”

He pulled in a quick breath in response but didn’t move. One of them was going to have to move, to speak, to do something, but Hermione felt frozen under the weight of all that had gone between them. Then, as he was about to take it out of her hands – a small twitch as he made to straighten from his lean against the shelves – there was a scuffling, a giggling, and the burst of intrusion into their bubble.

They were both startled, turning to see who it was, finding two students – boy and girl, Hufflepuff and Slytherin – making their way out of the library. Spotting their professors they froze, smiles falling off their faces as they tried frantically to find excuses for whatever it was they were doing wrong. Hermione was always a little bit tickled whenever she realized she was one of those people now; like McGonagall, she could strike fear into the hearts of teenagers.

But then, never so well as Draco. 

“Mr Maddock, Miss Rabnott, you appear to have approximately thirty seconds until curfew. Since you can’t Apparate on the Hogwarts grounds, I’d suggest you hurry and pray Mrs Norris isn’t about,” he said sharply.

After a chorus of ‘yes professors’ and ‘sorry, won’t happen agains,’ they shuffled out of the library, leaving silence in their wake. Hermione stifled a chuckle and turned back to see Draco already eyeing her. She paused for a second, undecided on how to proceed, until she smiled slightly and leaned back against the table, settling in. 

He dipped his chin and raised his eyebrows, waiting for a further sign. Hermione could do nothing more than hold his gaze, her heart pounding wildly. He finally nodded, somehow finding a way to trust the hint, and stalked slowly toward her.

When he got there, she widened her legs slightly so he could reach her with no trouble, but that’s all the help she gave. Lifting both hands, he cradled her jaw, angling her, leaning down. From this close, she could see the light shadows under his eyes, and the small signs of complete exhaustion written on his face. There was a vulnerability to him then, a desire emanating from him for comfort, for something _good_ to happen, to renew his faith that such things exist. 

Hermione recognized it, because she felt it down to her bones. She needed this; she needed to be without care, if only for the night.

His hot breath ghosted her lips for an age before his mouth came down on hers. It was soft at first, his kiss, and she was surprised he was being so tentative. But when he breathed in, opening wider, and pressed with more confidence, she lifted her hand and grabbed a fistful of his shirt. 

As she urged him closer with it, a groan came from Draco as he touched his tongue to hers. He pulled back, then pushed in again, touching but not fully possessing. He was maddeningly delicate as she tried to spur him on with the twist of her fingers at his chest. But he had full control. He held her in place, taking things at his own speed. It wasn’t until she raised her legs to wrap around his hips, hooking her feet around back of his legs and squeezing, that her urgency finally became his own.

The kiss became bruising, desperate, and full of the fire of years of yearning between them. Hermione’s heart soared to see and _feel_ that she’d not been in this alone, that he’d wanted her just as much. The proof of that was in the hardness she felt against her stomach, and a muffled squeal came from her as he rocked forward. 

She could have kicked herself for it though, as it seemed to shake him out of whatever had taken him over. Pulling away just enough to see her face, Draco’s eyes were dark but questioning. Hermione wanted to shake herself to rid the tension in her bones as he held her gaze. She could sense him closing back up, giving in to some insecurity, needing some assurance she wasn’t sure she knew how to give.

But Hermione had meant what she’d said before: she was tired of being scared. 

So as she felt him shifting ever so slightly away from her, Hermione made a split-second decision, summoning all the fortitude in her to see this through. She loosened her legs from their hold on him, letting him step back.

“It’s past curfew,” she said quietly.

Nodding once decisively, he turned to go, but she wasn’t about to let him get away.

“And Mrs Norris is most definitely going to be out, so... we should probably stick together.” 

Hermione knew that sounded stupid. She felt like a teenager with a blush to match, but she couldn’t even fake ‘smooth’ if she tried. As teachers, there was nothing wrong with them being out after curfew, but that didn’t matter for her purposes. It suddenly seemed like exactly what she wanted, what she’d been yearning for; to be a teenager, to reset, rewind to the beginning and maybe get things right this time. Neither she nor Draco had the chance to fully be one the first time around, at least for very long.

He stood stock-still, bemused as though trying to work out some secret code in what she’d said. But since she was about to be fairly obvious, she figured it wouldn’t be too difficult for him to sort.

“You know, if there are two of us, we can keep more than one eye out, and one of us can distract her if we need to so the other can get away,” she continued, praying that he was as willing to let go of reality and play as she was. “She’s so old and feeble now that it shouldn’t be diffic—”

“Are you asking me to escort you to your room, _Professor_ Granger?” Draco asked, and for the first time she caught the delicious wickedness in the way he used her title that she’d never been able to place until then.

“Only if you’re up for it, _Professor_ Malfoy.” And though it was not at all like her, she let her eyes dart downward to the part of him that would indeed decide whether or not he could rise to the challenge.

With that, a smile lit Draco’s face, and he was suddenly a flurry of decisive action. After a few seconds of furious spell-casting to secure their workspace, the library, and shut everything down for the night, he grabbed her hand and pulled her after him, speeding them away in his long, swift stride. 

It was easy to keep up with his warm hand to guide her. She felt like she could fly as they rushed out into the night and through the empty corridors of Hogwarts.

When they got to the end of the hallway, Draco stopped them, turning to look at her. His face was neutral, but the question was clear: your place or mine? She gave just a small tug to pull him to the left and up in the direction of her room. He followed her lead. 

It was much slower going at her speed. And with the main staircases out of order, they had to walk the length of each corridor to reach the side stairs. It took twice as long to get anywhere in the castle lately, and Draco was clearly impatient with their lack of progress. He worried this thumb incessantly against the back of her hand, the only place he could rid himself of the excess energy.

Suddenly, he stopped, stepping in front of her. “Where’s your room, Granger?” he asked, his voice gruff. The darkness in his eyes sent a thrill through her.

“Fifth floor. West tower.” 

And then they were off again, the pace much more to Draco’s liking, and one Hermione was getting used to. Coming off the fifth floor staircase, they heard a noise, and he impulsively pulled her behind the statue of Alberic Grunnion to hide. She wound up facing the wall, with him pressing up behind her. The voices got closer to reveal it was the Head Boy and Head Girl, deep in conversation, making their rounds after curfew. 

Hermione’s heart raced, and it didn’t even occur to her that she and Draco weren’t actually doing anything wrong. She felt more alive in that moment than she had in years, as joy bubbled up and tried to burst from her chest. Was this what it felt like, to be young and reckless in the dark of Hogwarts? She’d missed so much in her time.

As he pressed closer in against her, his own heart raced against her back. Then he angled his hips just so and the hard length of him nestled against her bum.

A shiver went down her spine and a groan nearly escaped, just as the students were nearly to the statue. Hidden only as safely as they were within the shadows, Draco ‘shhhhed’ her and brought one hand up and brushed her hair to one side. Her neck exposed, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to her skin. She arched her back, pressing into his pelvis, and then it was his turn to stifle a groan.

They each held their breath as the students’ conversation stalled for a second, sure they must have heard. But they continued on their way, none the wiser. When they were out of earshot, Hermione arched against Draco again, and he let out a plaintive moan and slumped with his hands on either side of her against the wall. 

She took advantage and pushed her way out from behind the statue like a shot. Taking off running, she looked back to see him following after her at full tilt and gaining on her steadily. A shriek of laughter came from her, and she suddenly couldn’t care less who heard. Hermione felt better than a teenager; she could never have had this kind of fun at that age.

Draco was nearly upon her by the time she reached the door to her suite. Bursting through into the sitting room, she quickly lit some of the lights and whirled around to face the doorway just as he filled it, arms pressing against the frame. Instinctively, she continued the chase, backing up step by step as he moved forward, foot by foot. 

“You scared, Granger?” he asked, in a growl that barely rumbled from his chest. 

Hermione had pride, but it wasn’t that which froze her to the spot. The look in his eyes made her unable to move any farther as Draco once again crossed the distance she’d put between them. Her brain shifted into overdrive, a thought she’d had when he first kissed her in the library running over and over on repeat. 

She was going to have sex. At Hogwarts. Sex at Hogwarts. She, Hermione Granger, was going to have _sex_ at _Hogwarts_. She’d never done that, not there, and it wasn’t something that seemed plausible at all. Of course, it was quite a bit less jarring than thinking she was going to have sex... with Draco. She, Hermione Granger, was going to have _sex_ with—

But then the man himself reached her, wrapped his arm about her waist and captured her mouth in the most complete and mind-wiping kiss she’d ever experienced. Then nothing was unlikely and everything was possible, and she didn’t think much of anything after that as the kiss went on forever.

Hermione pulled at his outer robes. When that failed, she tried to dig her hands through the front opening to the shirt underneath, but she couldn’t make progress. Draco was running his hands down her back and working his way under her blouse and got frustrated when he couldn’t lift it over her head. 

She wrapped her arms around his waist, reaching to pull up his robes from behind, grabbing his arse in the process. That led Draco to grunt and grind against her, but got her no closer to her goal. He then pulled back slightly, attempting to get at her front buttons to gain access that way, but she had too tight a hold of him, and he couldn’t reach down far enough.

The two of them continued on like this for at least five minutes, never once breaking their kiss. They did make progress across the lounge, through the door and into her bedroom, but they were still no more naked when they got there than when they’d started.

Then, just as the back of Hermione’s legs hit the mattress, Draco growled loudly, locked his hands on her hips, and pushed her away from him roughly. Surprised, she let go of him, only to fall on her back on the bed. Standing over her, Draco’s face was a mixture of heat and satisfaction. 

He very quickly divested himself of his outer robe, shirt, undershirt, shoes, socks, and trousers. Hermione was a little slow on the uptake (she had quite the show in front of her to distract her), but she eventually caught on and started unbuttoning and unclasping.

She wished she’d started sooner though, because he was nearly finished before she began. He had nothing to do but stand over her, _watching_. It also didn’t help that she needed to roll around and shimmy about on the bed to get out of her own clothes, and she just _knew_ unflattering jiggling was happening. Averting her eyes from his intent stare, she’d never felt so awkward in her life. Then the bed dipped under the weight of his knees, and he started to help.

“You’re beautiful, Hermione,” he murmured against her skin.

And then she couldn’t feel enough of where she ended and he began to be self-conscious about anything. There was nothing but warmth, and pressure, and the heat and softness of his kisses. Draco drove her mad, slowly working his way down and back up. Content to explore, to discover her weak spots and find her strongest reactions, he didn’t seem in any hurry. 

But when he headed back down, arms under her thighs and his mouth searching, she lost all patience. Making a fist of the fingers threaded in his hair, she yanked, probably a little too hard. He lifted his head, a wide grin on his face, and made to lower back to his task. She pulled his hair even harder.

“Draco...” she said, trying not to whine, but she couldn’t help the whimper.

Hermione was terrible at this. Not in knowing what she wanted in bed, but in _asking_ for it. It wasn’t fair that one needed to have control of their verbal skills at a time like this. But it was also just plain difficult to articulate something so animal, basic; it was nearly impossible to put such things into words.

But at that moment, she pulled, wriggled, angled and arched, in every way signaling what she needed then. In every other way, she said she was ready for him and didn’t want to wait any longer. Mercifully and miraculously, Draco got it. He crawled his way back up, licked her neck and kissed her mouth once, twice, three times.

Looking up into his eyes, dark with lust but deep with feeling, she realized she was _ready_ for him in every way. They could never have been this to each other all those years ago, and there was no need for regret. They were ready for each other _now_ , and they had no need to wait any longer.

As he slid into her, she knew that it was their time, their moment, and if Draco was willing, she’d follow that long-limbed stride wherever it led.

  
*******   


Hermione awoke in the middle of the night to dim light and shadow, the magic curtain of sleepiness and candlelight turning an ordinary room into a fuzzy dream world. She became conscious in gentle stages with the help of the lovely and simultaneously maddening sensation of millions of tiny tingles all over her stomach.

Warm, soft hands were running up and down her thighs, and soft hair was dragging across her skin. As she groaned tiredly and stretched, she felt a chuckle puff against her inner thigh. That tickled like hell and made her twitch and close her legs tightly on a spasm, knocking Draco in the head.

Hermione leaned up on her elbows and looked down to see him scowl slightly and rub his head. Seeing the look on his face and his hair askew, suddenly everything seemed positively, delightfully absurd. She was overtaken by an uncontrollable, full-bellied laugh, which only deepened Draco’s scowl.

“What?” he said.

It took her a moment to answer, and when she did, it was through gasping laughs. “Don’t you find this absurd?”

He looked around in his immediate vicinity (which, lying perched on his elbows between her legs, was a rather interesting view), raised an eyebrow and asked, “This?”

She gestured, waving her hand between the two of them and then in a circle above them to indicate their environment. “Here. Doing this, here. It’s absurd.”

Draco pulled himself up, placing his elbows on the outside of her hips, arching up higher above her waist. Looking around blankly, he said, “ _Here_?”

Clearly, post-shag Draco was considerably obtuse and not terribly articulate. 

“I mean here, at Hogwarts. I’ve never had sex at Hogwarts,” she inexplicably whispered. That brought a rather satisfied smile from Draco that made her laugh even more. “Don’t you think it’s strange to be doing this, here?” Then something occurred to her. “Have you ever had sex here?”

The smile dropped only a fraction as he raised his eyebrows. “Do you want me to answer that?” he asked, his voice thick and sleepy.

She thought on it for only a moment. “Yes. I think I do.”

He first leaned down to kiss her belly-button before saying, “Nothing much to speak of.”

Hermione decided to take that to mean: Pansy; only a few times; and that it was ultimately unsatisfying. That was all fine with her. He started to push back downward, but she wasn’t finished talking.

“It’s just strange, doing anything like this in the castle. I keep thinking of all the ghosts and portraits that could stumble upon us at any moment—”

“Kinky,” Draco said with a smirk.

“You know what I mean. It’s just... it’s like worrying about your _parents_ hearing. The walls literally have eyes and ears and a propensity for gossip, and they’ve known me since I was eleven, so... it’s unsettling.”

Draco thought for a second, still seeming a bit slower on the uptake than usual. “It’s not any different for me than the manor. I guess I just grew up with it, so it doesn’t seem strange.” He shrugged and chose that moment to pepper tiny, nips and kisses all over her abdomen. 

She threaded her fingers in his hair and relaxed into it. When Hermione started to unwind, however, her brain had a tendency to go off on tangents and adventures through the most random thoughts she ever entertained. Those thoughts rarely stayed inside her head.

“Well, I can see that it would be different, growing up in the wizarding world, but it’s still a _school_. And there are just so many of them about. I mean, imagine if Nearly Headless Nick decided to head on in here right now, or if Dumbledore’s portrait took a stroll—”

“...ruining the mood, Grnnrrr...” 

And then Hermione decided to be bold. “Or what about Salazar Slytherin? Imagine what he’d say.”

Draco stiffened slightly, and her heart dropped just a bit, the beast inside born of doubt rearing its ugly head. That part of her couldn’t help but watch for the return of the boy he’d been so long ago, no matter how much she tried to quash it with the experience of who he was today.

But then he said lowly, as though speaking to himself, “He’s not saying anything anymore.”

The muffled words percolated in Hermione’s distracted mind for only a few seconds. She stiffened with an abrupt thought. “Hang on, what do you mean?”

He ignored her for a second until she said his name. He raised his head, his face blank. “What?”

“What about Salazar Slytherin? He’s not talking anymore?”

Draco’s eyes darted to and fro for a moment before settling back on hers. “No.”

Her brain came back from vacation, and her thoughts leapt immediately into high gear. 

“The Founders’ portraits... they don’t always speak consistently like the rest, but they are bound by the charter to if asked for advice. Have you tried to talk to his portrait lately?”

“No.”

“When was the last time you heard it speak?” she asked excitedly.

Draco pushed up to kneel, heaved a sigh and ran his fingers through his hair. “This past fall.”

Hermione nearly saw stars from the force of her epiphany. “Oh my God, Draco... ‘all must contribute equally.’ I know Gryffindor’s portrait has had some things to say lately, and Ravenclaw... I’m not sure about Hufflepuff’s, but if what you’re saying is true, that could be what’s caused the catalyst to disappear from the other enchantments. Slytherin has been silenced!”

Untangling herself from both the covers and Draco, she got up and started hurriedly getting dressed. Draco stayed where he was.

“You don’t know that, Granger. ‘Contribute’ seems to me to mean—”

“It’s not just about what’s tangible, it’s about having a _voice_. It’s why none of the four Founders ever served as headmaster or headmistress; they were all supposed to have an equal say in what happened at the school. That say was never to diminish with time.” Finished dressing, she started gathering Draco’s things from about the room and tossing them toward him on the bed. “When Slytherin left after his feud with Gryffindor, he wasn’t removed from influence or from power within the school. He’s always still had an equal say. Yes, his Basilisk was destructive and his ideas were counter to the others, but he was always going to be a part of the charter.”

Draco finally snapped up the clothing around him, getting to his feet. “Fine. Say that’s true. It wouldn’t particularly be a strength having one person’s say – no matter how destructive – always a part of the fabric of the whole. The catalyst is something that gives _power_ to everything here, so—”

“But it _is_ a strength to any society, community, organization... where there is the freedom for everyone to have their own beliefs, that is what makes it strong. Oppression of ideas or points of view always weakens the whole.” Hermione turned away and walked to the door.

“We have to do this now?” Draco called, his tone surly. 

“Why not? We’ve been trying to figure this out long enough, and if this is it, Draco...” 

She rushed out of her room, through the lounge and out the door into the dark, empty corridor, only looking back once to see him shuffling along behind her. Hermione was too excited to really register the fact that for the first time, Draco wasn’t rushing through the halls, forcing her to nearly jog to keep up. Comically, it was she who kept stopping and hopping from one foot to the other waiting for him to catch up. But she attributed it to him being tired, so she didn’t mind waiting.

And, well, she did feel a little guilty for pulling him out of a warm bed.

Hermione had again run on ahead when they’d gotten to the dungeons, but waited for him before giving the password and going through the door. As a staff member, she had all the passwords to all of the Houses, but she’d never had cause to come in here. It was actually her first time in the Slytherin common room, and she was as curious about it as a little girl.

Draco pushed past her as she took in the plush, green velvet sofas and dark wood. The windows looking out into the depths of the lake were disconcerting; being a bit claustrophobic, she would never have been able to live here, with the constant knowledge of being underwater. The thought of underground tunnels always made her a little breathless, as she had a great fear of one collapsing and water rushing in at her.

With a shudder, she abandoned that line of thought. Hermione knew it was ridiculous anyway, since she’d never been in any danger of being chosen for Slytherin. She turned her attention to Draco, finding him standing very still before the nearly life-sized portrait of the Founder that hung over the fireplace. It looked strangely motionless, even to a Muggle-born like her. 

“Draco,” she said, her voice hushed, “has it been frozen?”

He started, as though he’d forgotten she was there. He didn’t turn but continued looking up at the picture as he replied, “Yes.”

Hermione walked forward carefully. “I’ve never known of a spell which could fully silence a magical portrait. The one in Grimmauld Place, for instance—” She shook her head, wanting to get to the point. “Is it something a student could know? Even an advanced one, like, say... a Ravenclaw?”

“No,” Draco said.

Hermione felt a chill at the coldness of his tone. She was about to ask another question when there was a scuffling of footsteps from behind the wall where the portrait hung. To the right of it where there was the entrance to a hallway, presumably leading toward the dormitories, the sallow, brown-eyed face of Mitchell Gibbon appeared.

At first, he only saw Hermione, and he stepped out of the shadow into the common room with a scowl on his face. Pulling in breath to speak, he turned his head and saw Draco, and anger lit his eyes. Hermione was surprised to see it; she’d seen him with Mitchell a few times, and had thought he served as a sort of mentor for the boy.

“What are you doing?” the boy asked sharply. “Are _you_ trying to talk to—”

“Go to bed, Mr Gibbon,” Draco said tiredly. 

“He’s not going to say anything, you know. He hasn’t said anything ever since the first meeting—”

“I _said_ , go to bed.”

“—said it was probably sabotage by the Ravenclaws, but I think Slytherin’s just too disappointed—”

“Mitchell, that’s enough!” Draco roared.

Hermione jumped at his yell. Draco had moved forward, and his left arm was up and supporting him against the mantle of the fireplace. Breathing heavily, his face was twisted in distress instead of anger. 

Standing as Hermione was, essentially between the two of them, she had to look back and forth like watching a tennis match, and she turned then to Mitchell to see him focusing not on Draco’s face, but to the right of it, and his expression was wide-eyed and greedy. She turned back in time to see what the boy saw: the Dark Mark, shining faintly in this light, just before Draco jerked his arm down roughly to cover it.

As Draco quickly buttoned the cuff of his sleeve, Mitchell made a noise of disgust and said, “He won’t want to talk to you anymore.” And with that, he glanced at Hermione, turned, and disappeared back into the darkness of the hall.

Hermione was rattled, seeing the Mark on Draco’s arm. She hadn’t noticed it earlier, after all, when she’d been privy to every inch of him. It was faded to the point of being almost silver, and it nearly blended into his pale skin. But then, she hadn’t been looking for it. She’d actually forgotten it was there, through all the years and everything they’d been through. It just wasn’t something she associated with him anymore.

She realized as she watched Draco’s hand clench tightly into a fist around his wand that she’d been staring at his now sleeve-covered arm. Her eyes darted up to his to see a look of resigned acceptance before his expression again went blank. Hermione was struggling to find something, anything to say when her speeding brain finally caught up with itself.

“You froze the portrait.” she said breathlessly, with no accusation.

He didn’t answer but turned back to the painting and backed up a few paces. Hermione instinctively did the same, watching from over his shoulder as Draco simply stood there, taking in the image of Salazar Slytherin. Then he swung suddenly into action as though a starter pistol had sounded. 

He became a flurry of movement as though he was engaged in a duel with the thing. Grunting with the force of the swings, slashes, and flourishes of his wand-arm, he conjured beam after beam of magic that either absorbed into the painting or exploded against it. After a few minutes, a field of golden light emanated from the center and engulfed the frame. 

Draco stopped, motionless with his wand raised for a few seconds. Then with a great shout, he brought it down across the portrait like the finishing stroke in a fight to the death.

The field dissipated gently and silently, and for a minute, nothing happened. Hermione watched Draco’s shoulders rise and fall, his breathing heavy, his arms loose and hanging limp at his sides. Eventually, the portrait came to life. 

The face moved first: eyes blinking, forehead wrinkling, mouth turning down in a frown. Then the head moved side to side, his arms came up to fist his hands at his hips, and his legs widened to a authoritative stance. 

Salazar Slytherin took his time, acting as though he had everything else in the world to do first, but eventually, that head turned to acknowledge the man in front of him, and those piercing blue eyes found Draco.

“Ah. Mr Malfoy,” he said, his voice a rich baritone. Hermione was surprised at how pleasant he sounded. “You’ve come to your senses. Or are you here to berate me some more?”

Draco didn’t move. He looked like he was barely breathing.

A hard, pitying smirk twisted Slytherin’s face. “Well, well... I’ll repeat myself, then. You’re running from your potential. Every pure-blood who doesn’t take what is theirs with both hands, who shirks his responsibility to rule over the wizarding world, is a coward. You have power you’re throwing away by sharing it. Just look at what you can do!” he exclaimed, arms wide, indicating with a note of pride how Draco had bested even the likes of him. “You can do so much more if you only embrace it. You’re special, like Mr Gibbon is special, like your father and grandfather...”

Draco turned abruptly and walked away without a word to Slytherin or a glance to Hermione. His expression was tight and his jaw clenched over the words he refused to utter in reply. 

“Like Mr Riddle was special!” Slytherin cried. “You can shut me out, Mr Malfoy, but I cannot be silenced. I’m the voice inside your head, inside your heart, the things you know deep down to be true!” 

Hermione watched Draco go, stiff-shouldered and swift of stride as ever. She was astounded, humbled by the distance between the boy who had once lived and dreamed at the foot of Slytherin’s portrait and the man who turned his back on it now without regret. 

The door to the common room closed firmly behind him, but the portrait was only silent for a moment after his exit. Slytherin turned to her, eyeing her with a cool disdain that didn’t quite match the contempt of his words.

“And you know it to be true. The ruination of the wizarding world will come through the likes of you. Hogwarts will crumble, but the truth is one lone constant. The magical world is set to be—”

Slytherin’s tirade was cut-off by a tremendous clacking sound coming from the direction of the castle’s Entrance Hall. He began speaking again, trying to be heard over it, but Hermione turned her back on him and fled, knowing what was about to happen. 

Ascending the stairs from the dungeon, a sudden groaning, screeching noise reverberated throughout the castle and shook the windows, waking all who hadn’t been roused by the resetting of the House Points Hourglasses. 

The staircases newly restored, she again heard the chiming of the bells signaling the hour, the return of the steady tick-tock and whoosh of the pendulum in the clock tower, bringing forth a sigh of relief with its soothing rhythm. Hogwarts was itself once again.

As she walked tiredly back to her suite, past the students and teachers who were wandering out into the corridors to investigate the noise, Hermione imagined she could hear the faint scratching of an Ostrich-feather Quill on parchment.


	5. Chapter 5

From the next day onward, things returned to a strange sort of normal. Like the feeling after a summer storm, it was like a pressure, a weight had been lifted from the air, and Hogwarts was lighter for it. It wasn’t just the steady rhythm of the clock or the return of the spirit of competition between the Houses that gave them purpose; the students seemed to be relaxed again, at home in a world that seemed to make sense for all of them. 

Balance had been restored.

Hermione saw Draco only briefly at breakfast in the Great Hall over the next few days, and he nodded noncommittally each time to her open smiles. He hadn’t seemed hostile, just avoidant, so she decided to give him his space, no matter how much she wanted to run after him, to shake him, to make him talk to her. She tried just making herself available, waiting for him to come to her, but she was quickly losing patience. 

Then Headmistress McGonagall called her into her office, offering thanks and announcing that Hermione would be receiving a commendation from the Board of Governors for Special Service to the school. 

Before Hermione could even ask, McGonagall said, “I spoke with Professor Malfoy and he refused it. He insisted he’d been more hindrance than help in the matter.” Holding her hand up to forestall Hermione’s objection, she went on. “I know all about his spell to silence Slytherin’s portrait, and I know well why he did it. It seems there are more than a few people who think he got a raw deal after the war, and a good number of them are parents of current students. When he arrived in the fall, a handful of those who subscribe to pure-blood superiority sought to make him their _cause célèbre_. They met with him on the first Hogsmeade weekend, but Mr Malfoy was unwilling to carry their banner.”

Hermione was a little too stunned to respond. McGonagall smiled gently and continued. 

“While no one will ever hold a candle to Albus Dumbledore, each headmaster and headmistress of Hogwarts has had their ways of knowing more than anyone else what’s going on,” she said with an uncharacteristic smirk. “There have always been students – not all Slytherins, mind you – who rally and scheme, and we, for the most part, succeed in keeping an eye on them. It was true in the time of Harry’s parents, in the generations before them, true for your time, and is still the case today. Though there will always be discontent and factions will always form amongst the students, that’s all a part of the experience of different points of view. That will never change.”

“You’re not concerned about the incidents of the past year?”

“Of course I’m concerned. I always am, and I’m saddened, but I suspect that a lot of it had a lot to do with Mr Malfoy starting last fall, then the portrait and the breakdown of the Founders’ magic. Naturally, what he’s been going through did come as a shock... but then he’s been known to suffer in silence, not quite trusting the help that was to be had,” she said sadly. “He’s gotten better at hiding his troubles, through the years. It will take a patient heart to draw him out.”

That last part was said rather pointedly, and Hermione’s cheeks heated. She didn’t know how these old meddlers kept guessing her feelings, since she didn’t think she was being particularly obvious about them. The embarrassment annoyed her; she didn’t even know if there was anything to be mortified _about_ , after all. 

Suddenly, she was through with giving Draco his space and ready to get to the bottom of whatever this was between them. Hermione left the headmistress’ office with purpose, determined to seek him out, ready or not.

She found him in the first place she looked, though there wasn’t anything particularly impressive about her detective work. Draco didn’t do much socializing outside of classes and meals, so it was an easy guess that he’d be in his classroom. Without knocking, she pushed inside the door to find him alone in the empty room. In the fading light of sunset, the sight of him in his white shirtsleeves against the orange glow from the windows was nearly blinding. He was turned almost completely away from the door, and she could only see the faintest outline of his profile as he raised his wand in a confident swish.

His incantation was silent, but the formless silvery mist that came from the end of the rod of hawthorn was unmistakable.

“That spell has always given me a bit of trouble too,” she said quietly, though she startled him nonetheless. He whipped about to face her, wide-eyed until he recognized her. “When we were learning it in Dumbledore’s Army, Harry made an example out of me to teach the rest and I froze up. I never got over it. I always stumble a little bit when I try.”

“Granger, hearing that you were learning to wield this sort of magic as a fifth-year is not exactly helping me produce happy thoughts,” he said sourly, but there was an ever-so-slight smile in his eyes.

Hermione couldn’t help but smirk, enjoying in spite of herself that she had something over him. She did, however, hold back on announcing that Harry had perfected the Patronus charm as a _third_ -year. “Well, you should feel pleased that Defense Against the Dark Arts was my worst subject. I got a mere “Exceeds Expectations” for both my O.W.Ls and my N.E.W.Ts.” Hermione said this lightly, but it still rankled her. She had studied so hard for them, too.

“There are a great many things that please me, but I can’t say that’s ever been one of them. It does _amuse_ me though.” 

She narrowed her eyes at him as he stood there, looking perfectly innocent. She had to look away to say, “Look, I wanted to—”

“I didn’t know it was what I’d done to the portrait.” he said lowly, and when she looked back to him, his face was flushed. “I mean, I considered the possibility, but I hoped it was something else. I thought for sure there had to be some other thing that would reactivate the catalyst, because it made no sense that—”

“It’s fine, Draco.”

“I didn’t intend to waste your time.”

“You didn’t,” she said simply.

He stared at her, surprised for a moment, then took a deep breath and released it slowly. Walking over to one of the few tables in the room, he leaned against it heavily. “It’s just... the Founder’s artifacts weren’t the only important thing to me in all of this. I...” 

He looked off out the nearest window, and a ray of the fading sunlight hit his eyes, making them bright silver. The beauty and frustration she saw there took her breath away.

“McGonagall told me about your meeting with the students,” she said, forcing herself to keep her eyes on his, though they’d turned to her with such guilt shining through she wanted to look away. “Draco, you’re not responsible for what the students believe. You can’t change the prejudices they arrive with, nor control the environment—”

“We should be able to keep them from hearing more of it!”

“Draco, if it’s all they hear of such things, it won’t have much effect. And if it’s just reinforcing what they’ve already heard all their lives, silencing it won’t matter.”

“But you don’t understand,” he said, standing, moving toward her, his voice urgent. “You don’t know the kinds of things he can say. He whispers... enticements... flattery.”

“Yes.”

“What he’s saying to Gibbon now are the same things he said to me, the same things he said to my father and his father before that.”

“Exactly.”

“Granger, don’t be purposefully obtuse,” Draco snapped.

“Who’s being obtuse? I’m standing here looking at you, Draco, the _product_ of all of this flattery from Salazar Slytherin, and I can’t bring myself to worry overly about it.”

“Need I remind you who else was a product of Slytherin’s encouragement?” he asked darkly.

“Tom Riddle is not the entirety of the House of Slytherin,” she said fiercely, “and the only way to move forward is to stop acting as though he was. Hogwarts is the whole of its history, the sum of its parts... and so are you. You’re not a lesser man for the mistakes of your past; in many ways you’re stronger for them. The Founders knew that. The imperfections of all of them and the foibles of the wizarding world are woven through the magic of this place.”

Draco shook his head, his brow furrowed in utter disbelief at her words. “It’s not so simple, Granger. You can’t just walk away and move on from your mistakes. The rest of the world doesn’t _let_ you.” 

Hermione’s heart twisted, and she chose her next words carefully, not wanting to minimize something she’d never fully be able to understand about his experience. “You can only live your life, Draco, hoping the people you want to influence notice your example, and... ignoring the opinions of those who don’t matter.” 

She shrugged, knowing it wasn’t simple, but hoping against hope he could believe it was _possible_. But Hermione knew if he’d let her, she’d never tire of reminding him of how she saw him, that he was so much more than what the world saw in him. 

“Draco, It’s the struggle to do what’s right while still being imperfectly _human_ that makes a good man.”

His expression was still skeptical, but there was a brightness in his eyes that gave her hope. Hermione waited, though she wanted to throw her arms around him and snog any and all self-doubt away for good. Gradually, his spine straightened and his chest puffed back up, and he looked a lot more like himself. Seeing him like this, she felt a wave of happiness take her, a faith in the future that filled her up, that inspired her. 

And so she concentrated, thinking of the look of Draco’s eyes when he smiled... the rush she got when an unsure student finally did what they thought they could never do... the wonder in Harry’s face when he looked at his wife and children... and she let this unbound joy fill her as she spoke the words: _Expecto Patronum_. 

The silver otter shot from her wand, swimming and floating through the air, and it lit up Draco’s face as it flew by. “See there?” she said, pointing at it as it flopped and swam about. “We struggle, but never stop learning and growing.”

Draco was watching her Patronus with what she thought was wonder until he side-eyed her with a smirk. “An _otter_? Where did that come from, Granger?”

Hermione frowned but refrained from turning it into a full-blown pout. “That’s a perfectly respectable Patronus. It’s chased off Dementors and carried very important messages.”

“I didn’t say anything about it,” he said innocently. “It’s positively adorable.”

Her frown turned into a scowl. “Right. Let’s see then,” she said, gesturing for him to reciprocate.

She might have imagined it in that light, but it looked like his ears turned red.

“No. I don’t feel like—”

“Don’t you have to practice for your class?”

He lowered his chin and said sternly, “I don’t have to prove anything.”

“You scared, Draco?” she taunted, voice low.

But he didn’t narrow his eyes at the challenge like she expected. The largest smile she’d ever seen graced Draco’s face, and a deep chuckle came from within him. Shaking his head, amused, he turned abruptly and quickly cast the spell with a murmured incantation. As soon as the wiry, silver animal came flying from his wand, he glanced sharply over at Hermione, a warning in his eyes.

The ferret Patronus trotted about proudly on its short legs, back arched, head down, long fluffy tail dragging behind it. Stopping a moment, it turned, craning its long neck back toward them with curiosity, head up, sniffing.

“Not a word, Granger,” Draco said softly.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, _Professor_ Malfoy.”

With that, she again cast her Patronus, figuring she’d let the otter speak for itself. Bigger, more graceful in the air, it sped toward the waiting ferret, who did a half-sideways backward hop away before flopping on its back and mimicking the otter. Draco and Hermione watched and laughed as they frolicked about and around each other in the air, otter and ferret, until they vanished into the fading sunlight.

  
*******   


Hermione leapt from the west staircase as it swung around to the main corridor, then turned and bounded down the grand staircase with a spring in her step to match the warm, clear day outside. The castle was nearly empty, the entirety of the staff and student body out to watch the rescheduled match between Ravenclaw and Slytherin that would decide the Quidditch Cup.

Like McGonagall, Hermione was starting to be cautiously optimistic that Hogwarts had gotten over the worst of this particular rough patch. There would be more, but there was no storm the old school wasn’t built to weather. One year was coming to an end, and a group of seventh-years would be leaving to forge their path in the world. But a new batch would come along, including a handful of Muggle-borns who would also be finding their way in a whole new world they’d never known was even possible.

She always got a little nostalgic and emotional around this time of year, but it was the reason why she’d begun teaching; she wanted to give back some of the joy she’d found in this place. Though Hermione had always thought she’d make her mark on the world through big, sweeping changes to the Ministry or by changing the perceptions of society toward Magical Creatures, the law, or the absurdities of blood prejudice, she found her work was more satisfying here and her impact greater, one young mind at a time.

When she was nearly down to the Entrance Hall, she heard shouting. Her heart leapt into her throat as she recognized the voice of Head Auror Harry Potter himself.

“Quick, or we’re gonna have a real tragedy on our hands!”

“I can’t do anything about it, Harry. I’ve got a mess of my own. If you hadn’t been so sure about this, you might have taken some precautions to prevent—”

“Oh, bloody hell, Ron, just suck it up and follow my lead, alright?”

Hermione was just about to rush to their aid when they came barreling through the double doors into the hall. Harry was in a T-shirt and jeans, looking rested but as rumpled as ever. He had a diaper bag over one shoulder and his youngest, six-month-old Lily, slung on his hip. His head was turned away and the expression on his face signaled what was sure to be an imminent diaper-change.

Ron was walking quickly with arms straight out in front of him, his baby niece, Roxanne, held as far away from himself as possible. Hermione was about to ask a half-dozen questions when Ron spotted her and shot in her direction. 

“Auntie Hermione! Just the person we wanted to see, huh, Roxanne?” he said, blue eyes imploring as he tried to hand her off.

“Uh-unh,” Hermione said, waving him away. “You’re on your own, Uncle Ron. There’s a changing table in the public toilet by the staff’s lounge.” She pointed to the right, trying not to laugh, figuring it was the least she could do.

“Harry...” Ron began, turning in desperation.

“Right behind you, mate,” he said, pushing him from the back toward the loo. He sighed and rolled his eyes as he walked past. “Afternoon, Hermione.”

She was still processing what they were doing here when she heard a faint, “Oi! Malfoy – out of the way!” from down the hall, proceeded by none other than the man himself. Looking back quizzically behind him as he made his way over to her, he gestured with a thumb over his shoulder and was probably about to ask any number of questions when she held up a hand.

“No idea,” she said bluntly. 

“They’re not here in some official capacity?” he asked, looking sincerely suspicious.

“What, with babies as cover? You’re being paranoid, Draco. There’s nothing the Ministry wants with Hogwarts.”

He nodded, a bit absently and with a crease in his brow, but he looked like he was going to let it go. She was trying to think what to say next when what must have been the last gaggle of kids in the castle bounded down the stairs, among them, Greta Carmichael and Mitchell Gibbon. Nearly a dozen of them rushed their professors with enthusiasm, overwhelming them with questions about assignments, worries about exams, and pleas for reassurance and praise. Hermione was always energized by their eagerness, and she was doubtful she’d matched it at their age. 

Greta and Mitchell stood aside from the lot, talking quietly amongst themselves. But after several minutes, when the students all seemed to take their leave as quickly as they’d descended upon them, they moved to go along. The two were almost past them when Greta turned and quietly said, “Afternoon, Professor Granger, Professor Malfoy.” Gibbon was silent, though the girl seemed to have him tightly by the hand. 

Hermione sighed, not in relief but in resignation. Things were going to be _fine_ , not perfect. When they were gone, and it was again silent in the Entrance Hall, Draco reached out his hand and brushed the tips of his fingers down her arm, leaving a trail of goose bumps in his wake. She turned to meet his gaze, and the shivers intensified at the look in them. Steel grey in the afternoon sun, they were full of purpose. 

Draco leaned in – and she was just _sure_ he was about to kiss her – when they were again interrupted by Harry and Ron’s return. The latter had an absolutely comical look of disgust on his face, but Harry was as nonplussed as ever, kissing Lily’s head with loud smacks that were making her giggle wildly. Draco stepped back, leaving Hermione’s arm feeling a little bit colder, but he didn’t leave, and she took that as a good sign.

“What are you two doing here, anyway? Where’s Ginny?” Hermione asked.

“She and Angelina are off _shopping_.” Ron grumbled. “This was Harry’s bright idea.” 

“I wanted to see the game. It was either take Lily or stay home with all the kids.” Harry shrugged. “Samson’s nephew plays for Ravenclaw. It seemed like a fair trade to get to come to the game.”

Just then, Roxanne started fussing, looking as though she was just winding up for a full-blown cry. Ron moaned and started bouncing her, muttering as he walked briskly back outside. “Uninterrupted Quidditch. That’s all I ask...”

“Harry,” Hermione began, concerned, “do you think—”

“He’ll be fine,” Harry said with a wave. “Luna came with us. You should _see_ the hat she’s got this time. She’s got a way with Roxanne, but she doesn’t do diapers.”

Then Harry looked from her to Draco and suddenly seemed to register that he might be interrupting something. But he froze on a breath as though he wasn’t quite sure what to do about it. Draco was standing rather stiffly beside her, and she simply refused to abide the tension.

“So. How are you, Harry?”

He looked grateful as he let out that breath in a rush and answered. “Oh, the same. Ginny’s decided to repaint, so the house looks like a tornado hit, I’ve been working on our liaison with the Vampire population in Eastern Europe, but that’s been slow going, Albus is having troubles with another kid at daycare, apparently his name is difficult for kids to say and it’s making him sad, which is making James taunt him endlessly, and Lily here seems to cut a new tooth every bloody day now, and—”

“Harry,” Hermione said, softly chiding, “I asked how you _are_.”

He looked startled for only a moment before his face broke into a grin. “Oh. Brilliant!” At that, Lily squealed and slapped him in the neck, and his smile doubled.

Then the crowd roared outside, and Harry’s attention snapped toward what was surely the releasing of the Bludgers and Snitch, signaling the opening of the match. Nearly nothing trumped Quidditch, so he automatically made to leave. When he reached the door, he turned and called out, “Malfoy. Five Galleons on Ravenclaw.”

Draco scoffed, “Easy money, Potter.”

Then with another great noise from the pitch, Harry was out the door with no goodbye to Hermione. Draco was about to follow, also seemingly powerless against the draw of Quidditch, when she reached out to grab his arm, deciding on impulse to do something bold to the point of stupid.

“Draco, how about we skip the game?”

He turned to look at her, and it was as though what she was saying just did not compute at first. “What?”

“There’s no one here... we could just get away and—”

“Granger, everyone’s seen us together,” Draco said, sounding almost scandalized.

“Well, yeah,” she said, blushing. “That’s sort of the point, isn’t it?”

His smirk was slow and his look was wicked. “You do have a kink for that sort of thing, don’t you? I would never have suspected, Granger, but I can’t say I’m disap—”

“What I _meant_ ,” she said with a huff and a toss of her hair, “was that there’s nothing wrong with people knowing we’re together. But if you think we should try to find somewhere no one will find us...” 

She blushed, well aware that she was exhibiting all the sophistication of a teenage girl. She really was rubbish at this sort of thing. Though she did know what she wanted, she was just a little inarticulate about getting it. Her hand tightened in his, pulling him closer, willing him to understand.

Draco was good at this though, so she needn’t have worried. “ _Professor_ Granger. Are you asking me to escort you to the nearest broom cupboard for unspeakable acts and general defilement?” He’d played it up for comedy’s sake, but she was still getting weak in the knees at the look in his eyes.

“I wasn’t necessarily suggesting that, but—”

“Hang on,” he said, eyes wide. “Does your history at Hogwarts also lack trips to broom cupboards, great or small?”

Hermione suddenly felt the need to defend her teenage-self. “You know, some of us were a little busy when we were students here, and didn’t have time to go gallivanting around,” she said sourly.

Draco tightened his grip on her hand and turned abruptly, heading back up the stairs two at a time and yanking her with him. Hermione held tight with both hands, allowing him to pull her along and using his arm as leverage to scale at the rigorous pace he was setting. They had climbed a whole flight before he spoke back at her over his shoulder.

“Had I known you were being so sorely neglected, Granger, I assure you that even in those days, I would have done something about it.”

She snorted, partly from the absurdity of his claim, but mostly from the fact she was already breathless from their journey. “I rather doubt that, but I assure _you_ , I would have hexed you in a most pertinent place, had you even tried _in those days_.”

“Well, as they say,” he said as he stopped abruptly, swept her against him, and kissed her swiftly, “timing is everything.”

And with that, he turned and fairly flew them up the next flight of stairs. As they sped off, a great cheer rose from the crowd outside, and Hermione’s heart soared with it.

  


*** END ***  



End file.
